


The Harvest

by BeesKnees



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Future, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Post-Series, Victors, the rebellion is a failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4954834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesKnees/pseuds/BeesKnees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Finnick,” Annie whispers; <i>Finnick, they're taking him away from us</i>.</p><p>Eighteen years later, Tristan Aldjoy prepares to marry Rosalind Snow. </p><p>(After they lost the rebellion, their children were the last thing Snow could take from them, the final lesson.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She doesn't know anyone here. They look down at her, stare down at her, clinical and indifferent. Annie is crying. (Annie has been crying for the last eight months. There has been no reason to stop, but now, now, she is hurting and she is scared, and _oh_ , she doesn't know how to tell the baby that he needs to stay still.) 

But this moment is here all the same, the one she has been dreading. (And, how is it that the Capitol can take another one of these moments from her? From them? She had never been allowed the luxury of dreaming what carrying Finnick's baby would be like, but this is all their fears confirmed.) 

They have lost the war. She is a prisoner. Their baby is about to become a prisoner.

She is hidden away in a Capitol hospital, and she doesn't know if anyone knows she's here. She is alone, except for the team of Capitol doctors who all look at her with disdain. She will not push, so they are frustrated with her. They tell her time and time again that she _must_ , and they have been at this for hours, Annie struggling to hold on. They have nothing left with which to threaten her after all; she doesn't know where Finnick is, hasn't seen him in weeks. She doesn't know what they will do to her baby when he is not inside of her anymore. Something, she knows. Something, because she's been kept alive this long, and that has to be for a reason.

“Finnick,” she cries, the word slipping from her once again before she can stop it. (She will not allow herself to say _please_ , even though she wants to. She wants to beg for him. But that will mean begging for him from the Capitol, from Snow.) 

She is drenched, her hair plastered against her head. They have changed her hospital gown once, but now have just left her. They give her nothing, because she will not cooperate. She clenches her hands, tight, scans the room once again for a flicker of sympathy. (But, no, nothing; little one, can't you see what sort of world is waiting to swallow you?)

The doctors huddle. 

“Prep her for surgery,” one of the doctors says finally to a nurse. There's a flurry of renewed activity.

“No,” Annie cries and wraps her arms around her stomach. “ _No_.” 

She has been fighting this for too long by herself. She physically can't sustain this anymore. When they drug her, she goes down, feeling as if she's clawing at thickened air. She tries to say Finnick's name again, but then she's just surrounded by the soft, bright lights. She is nowhere. The pain is finally gone, but something gnaws at her subconscious. Even in this twilight, she senses something is wrong.

She hears crying, and that brings her clawing upward. She's in a different room, flat on a metallic table. (She feels strangely distanced from herself, as if she's no longer slotted into her own body, but that isn't a concern anymore.) 

She's looking for _him_.

The crying grows louder, and she watches as one of the nurses swaddles the red, squalling mass – her son.

“Please,” Annie whispers. “Please, can I see him?” 

(That is her son. That is the baby that she and Finnick made, the one they were told was an impossibility. Here he is – and, oh, she wants him away from them. She wants to hold him. She wants Finnick here to anchor her, because she feels faint and blurred, and someone needs to rescue the baby.)

The nurse doesn't look at her. She coos down at the baby, and then turns and walks out of the room. 

“Finnick,” Annie whispers again; _Finnick, they're taking him away from us_.


	2. Chapter 2

Tristan Aldjoy waits in the atrium and tries not to fidget. He can count on one hand the number of times that he's been in the Presidential Manor, and he's never had an audience with Coriolanus Snow on his own before. He knows well enough to be nervous, but he tries to swallow the feeling down. He wipes his hands against his pants, breathes out, smooths a hand over his hair again. 

There are two guards standing outside the glass doors, sentries that haven't moved, or even looked at him, for the twenty minutes that Tristan has been left to wait in the atrium. They still don't move when the doors slide open of their own volition, nearly noiselessly. Tristan stares for a moment, waiting to see if he will be beckoned. When he isn't, but the doors remain open, he jerks forward.

The glass doors slide shut behind him again. 

He's never been in the greenhouse before. The air is moist, oppressive against his skin. The path beneath his feet gleams, cast out in white stone. He still stumbles along it, because the foliage is so overgrown. Palm fronds brush over his skin, tendrils of root systems trailing through the air. They brush over his face like fingers. The smell is cloying too – dirt, which wouldn't be as bad, but a strange mixture of all the fragrances of the plants lingers here, almost sticky sweet. With his senses so barraged, even the bright burst of flowers begins to make him feel dizzy. 

It takes longer than it should for him to break into the center of the greenhouse. Here, this is his destination. The rose garden, all neatly trimmed in order. The roses are bunched by color and type, all ringing a fountain that burbles quietly. 

Near the fountain is the man that Tristan has come to see: the great unifier of Panem, the president who kept the nation together when it was in turmoil. Coriolanus Snow. 

Also, his girlfriend's grandfather.

Tristan has met him only in passing. Ever since Snow passed off his power to another one of his grandchildren, he has retreated, largely, from the public view. He wants to leave his public image intact, so that he will be remembered, always, as the titan who stood against the rebels of District 13, unflinching. Well into his nineties, he no longer looks the role of that man. His skin appears paper thin in places, his body seeming to droop in impossible ways. His hands shake no matter what he is doing. Anytime Tristan has seen them, he's kept them tucked into his lap, as if this can be hidden. Physically, the man has begun to waste away. 

But his mind is still there, sharp and gleaming as ever. And that is abundantly obvious to Tristan. Those keen, glittering eyes pin him in place the moment he's near Coriolanus. His body may have failed him, but it's the mind of this man that has always has been valued most. And that survives. That reminds Tristan of the greatness that's in front of him and brings him up slow, makes his nerves kick back up.

“Tristan Aldjoy,” Snow says, and that voice is the same as ever, seared into Tristan's memory through the number of speeches they've listened to in his classes. He's tried to memorize anything that he has ever said in Tristan's presence, even though he's usually been one of dozens joining in on a family dinner.

“Yes, sir,” Tristan answers respectfully. He reminds himself not to fidget. He doesn't sit down, because he hasn't been invited to, but remains standing. He does well enough not to expect small talk. He gets right to the matter: “I'd like your permission to marry Rosalind, sir.”

(He had asked Rosie the night before while they were on the rooftop of her family's home, stargazing. She had said yes. They had permission from her sister, the president. But they all know well enough that none of those things matter if her grandfather says no. He can unmake them. But once he has given his word, they are as good as married. It will take a force greater than God to unmake them.)

A beat, a pause. A moment too long. It stretches on and Tristan thinks he'll say no – the moment is just long enough that Tristan wonders over whether he can live with that, live without Rosie, who has been his other half for as long as he can remember.

But then a wide smile stretches wide across Snow's mouth. (Even though it lifts Tristan's heart, he has to admit it's a gruesome sight too. Red streaks Snow's teeth.) 

“I know of your dedication to my granddaughter,” Snow answers. “And nothing would make me happier than to see you the two of you bound in matrimony.” He raises one hand, shaking to his pocket and takes something out. He holds his hand out to Tristan then; in his palm sits two gold bands, both simple, but of the highest quality. Tristan looks up at him, surprised. 

“I would like you to have these,” Snow says. Tristan knows what they are – Snow's own wedding band and his wife's. Everyone had expected him to give them to Eleanor when she had gotten married shortly after becoming president. When he had failed to do so, the family had assumed they wouldn't be handed down after all. But now, here they are, being offered to Tristan for him and Rosie.

“Thank you,” Tristan answers quietly, deferentially, taking the rings as carefully as he can. Snow catches him, holds him in place. (This is the steadiest Tristan has ever seen his hands.)

“You should know that I'm quite proud of you,” Snow says. The comment catches Tristan off guard. It seems like there should be more to it than there is, but what else could there be?

“Thank you,” he says again, and he knows he should say more. His mind has gone blank except for getting back to Rosie, who is waiting outside for him. 

Snow releases him and turns away. Tristan backs out of the rose garden, hurries just as quickly back through the labyrinth of the greenhouse. He doesn't look backward at the guards outside of the glass doors. He just bursts out into the sunlight. Rosie straightens at the sight of him; he doesn't have to say anything. She can see the happiness on his face. She throws herself into his arms and laughs into his shoulder.

…

Their engagement is announced as the 93rd Hunger Games draw to a close. They dine in the memorial gardens with 200 of Panem's elite. Screens are everywhere, displaying the games in technicolor vividness, so they don't miss anything. 

As dusk approaches, a cake is brought out, lit with sparklers and glowing. It is brought before them as Eleanor rises to her feet, makes a short speech about how she is proud of her sister and how she could imagine no one better than Tristan Aldjoy to marry into their family – that she is proud that their two eminent families are finally being joined together, in blood. 

There's probably applause, but Tristan doesn't hear it. Rosie kisses him warmly, and then they lean in, together, to blow out the candles on their cake.

(Within the hour, Vanora of District Four wins her crown. It's the end to a perfect evening; Tristan had sponsored her, the first victor he's picked since he came of age. He takes it as a sign, that this girl has won in his name, that the universe has shown that he – and Rosie – are on the rise. It's their turn to own the world.)

...

A week later, he is running late for the victor's interview. His parents had headed out ahead of him while he had been finishing up the with the family stylist. Gold collars are back in fashion, a trend that Tristan can't stand although Rosie is quite fond of them on him. (She likes how they bring out his eyes, she says. She likes to tug him forward by them, he says.)

He was supposed to meet her outside the media center that bears his family's name, but now he's running late, and it's impossible to catch a car. The streets are jammed, the celebrations already beginning. The air teems with the sound of honking horns and the jubilant music of partygoers. Tristan has to go on foot. He walks hurriedly. He's nearly halfway there when someone catches his arm. 

He turns, expecting it to be Rosie, even though he knows there's no reason she should be here in this moment. It's just that no one touches him with this sort of familiarity. But it's not Rosie at all: Wren Le Beau. She is a year beneath him in school, the daughter of a general. He knows of her, but he's never spoken to her before. She wears a look of surprise and Tristan thinks, for a moment, that maybe she grabbed him thinking that he was someone else. He waits for her to let go, but instead her hold tightens, almost reflexively. She doesn't find any words.

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“I,” she starts to say. She pauses again, but the single word seems to embolden her: “I need to talk with you.” She moves her lips as little as possible, the message barely delivered. It takes Tristan a moment to figure exactly what she's said.

(He fights himself: He can't tell if she's actually in trouble or not, and if she is, he should stay. But he's running late, and she's not talking.) 

“Listen,” he says kindly, smiling. “I'll catch you later, all right?” He starts to pull away, but she latches onto his arm again, holds him place. When he looks at her again, surprised, there's an obvious desperation shining in her eyes.

“No, Tristan, no,” she says staunchly. “I've been trying to catch you for weeks--”

“What?” he asks, exasperated. It's not as if he's that difficult to get a hold of, but he also doesn't know what _she_ would have to talk to _him_ about.

“ _Listen_ ,” she says sternly. She's still holding him in place even though he's not tugging away from her any longer. 

“Listen,” she says again. “After my father died,” (General Le Beau had died about six months ago. He expects that this has something to do with that – maybe that she's having trouble grieving or something about the special his family had aired on her father. But again, why is this _his concern_?)

But it takes another twist entirely: “I was the one who cleaned out his study after he died. And in his papers, I found something. I – I'm adopted. I think.” 

He stares at her.

Her eyes flit around the street again, pinpointing all the people who are strolling by. Not many. 

“I think I'm the daughter of rebels,” she says in a lowered voice. 

“Wren,” Tristan answers, uncomfortable. (He tries to hide this, tries to make himself sound gentle.) He places a hand gently on top of hers, with the intention of tugging her off. But that merely sets her off.

“No!” she says sharply. “No, listen. I thought it was weird at first, too, all right? Like, how did this happen? So, I tried to enlist, right? I'm the daughter of a general. A place in the military should have been guaranteed me whenever I wanted, yeah? But they _refused_ me on a pre-existing medical condition. I _don't_ have a pre-existing medical condition.”

“So, you think they refused you because you're secretly the daughter of rebels?” Tristan asks skeptically. He glances around the street now, too, because he doesn't particularly like how empty it is. He doesn't want to be alone with her right. She needs help and it's not the sort that he can give her.

“I'm not the only one,” she says quickly. She knows his attention is straying. 

“What?” he says again.

“I think you're one too,” she says breathlessly. 

They stare at each obstinately, the confrontation taking place on a a plane beyond words. A minute passes, and then another. Fireworks exploding in the sky are what finally breaks them down. Wren flinches, her eyes flitting upward. 

“Listen,” she whispers, gently, but more urgently as well. “I think, after the war, they decided to take the children of some rebels as a last measure of keeping them in place. I think it's supposed to be a secret – but not as well. I think a lot of the upper tier families in the Capitol got kids as like … rewards, I suppose. And I think some of the districts are kind of supposed to know who we are. Like, not officially, but I think just in rumor, yeah? Stories that were leaked but never confirmed after the end of the war.” She bites her lower lip. “I can show you what I've found, but it has to be tonight. Everyone will be watching the interview. Nobody will be watching what we're doing tonight.”

“My _parents_ will wonder where I am,” Tristan corrects. (This is utter insanity. He doesn't have the time to contend with this, nor the willpower. The idea of _him_ being adopted is simply impossible. He'll grant that maybe she found something she wasn't supposed to, but the theory she has cooked up around it is a strange brand of conspiracy.)

“But they won't know what you're doing.”

“This is crazy,” Tristan answers. He finally plucks her hand from his arm. “Wren, you need help.”

“ _Tristan_.” She fumbles with something in her jacket and finally pulls out a sheet of paper, folded over several times, like she's been walking around with it for a long time. She thrusts it in front of his face. “I think this is your real dad.”

He can't see what she's pulled out at first. It's too close to his face and the paper is worn. It's done in gritty black and white, aged – and what she has is obviously a photocopy. (He belatedly wonders where she got this.) But then she pulls back and the face swims into focus. 

His stomach lurches.

Because, she's right, at first he thinks he's looking at a picture of himself. A resemblance is definitely there. The man's jaw is perhaps more square, his face broader, his hair shorter. “WANTED” is stamped across the image in broad, blocky letters.

This is impossible though. That thought runs across his mind an infinite loop. He's an Aldjoy. His parents love him. He would know if he was adopted, wouldn't he? This is some crazy theory or maybe some prank. Maybe Wren and some of the others from school had just seen his passing resemblance to this man and decided to run with it. 

Far-fetched idea after far-fetched idea ricochets around his brain. But Wren takes advantage of the situation, because she thinks she has him now. She shoves the rebel picture back into her jacket.

“I think I've found at least three others,” Wren presses. “I think the Slenders took one of us, and maybe the Leonines.” Alonso Slender is the current head gamemaker, has been since the end of the war. The Leonines run the styling school for the games.

“And the Snows, of course,” Wren wraps up.

The mention of Snow – Rosie – snaps him back to reality. 

“Not Rosalind,” Wren says immediately, but she doesn't offer up another name in Rosalind's place.

“That's impossible,” he says again, weakly.

“I can show you more,” Wren pleads. “Please. You're the only one I thought I could trust with this.”

Something about those words tugs at him. Is he really the only who can help her with this? (But still, his mind is balking at what she's said, what's she's shown him. It comes up with explanations effortlessly.)

“If you come with me and you don't believe me, I'll leave you alone,” Wren continues, her tone turning a touch more steely. “But if you try and leave right now, I'll go to Rosalind.” There's no clear threat there, and he's not even sure why he doesn't want her taking this to Rosie, but he doesn't. The whole thing leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He eyes her, but she doesn't show any sign of backing down.

“You promise?” he asks.

“I promise,” she answers. 

“All right,” he relents. (Something in him wavers. This feels like a monumentally bad idea, even if it's the only way to get rid of her. This feels dangerous in a way that he's never felt before. He and Rosie had slipped out of classes a handful of times to take afternoons in the parks, and that's about the most rebellious he's ever been.) He feels as if he's losing something as he follows Wren down the street, away from the celebrations. 

The further they walk, the quieter it becomes. The fireworks over the center of town cast strange shadows across the emptied streets. Empty houses flare red and gold in turn.

Wren takes them all the way down to the library. He's about to point out that it's closed, but she slides around to the side. He watches as she lowers herself to the ground and rolls in through one of the basement windows. 

“Come on,” she hisses at him when she sees him hesitating. “No one is going to catch us in here right now!” 

He glances back down the street, but of course it's empty. He could leave her here, he knows. (What if she gets him down there and traps him there, he wonders. Can he get in trouble for that?) Her face disappears from the window. He expects her to resurface, to call him back down, but it's only when she doesn't that he slides to the ground and rolls inside as well. It's a much tighter squeeze for him, and his gold collars clatter against the frame for a moment. He drops down to his feet, loses his footing, and then rights himself.

Wren is already across the room, booting up one of the ancient computers. Her face glows a strange blue in its sickly light.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I'm connecting this to the military network,” Wren answers, distracted as she types. “These only link into the government-approved network.” 

“What?”

“What they want us to see,” Wren answers. She glances back over her shoulder at him, looking at him with an expression he can't quite read. 

“Sit down,” she adds, kicking one of the wooden chairs back at him. Its feet clatter loudly across the floor and, on instinct, Tristan tenses. 

“Won't somebody figure out your you're using your dad's device then?” Tristan asks.

“No,” Wren answers. “It was listed as decommissioned after his death, but I figured out how to coax some life back into it. And the library computers are always on, so there will be no additional pull of electricity on the grid right now.” She smiles at him. “We're ghosts.”

He lowers himself slowly down into the chair and watches as her fingers continue to fly across the keyboard. He's never seen anyone use a computer like this, really. They're available on a limited basis, but they've also been assigned so many projects from school on computers that they've ceased to be interesting. Usually, they're just watching a clip from the wars or old films from the Hunger Games. But the screens Wren flies through are unlike anything Tristan's ever seen before.

The computer beeps once and then a video player pops up. This, at least, is familiar to Tristan. The Executions.

“All right,” Wren says, and even her voice is hushed despite her reassurance that they're “ghosts.” 

“Wren,” Tristan sighs. “I've seen this like a million times.”

“Right,” Wren answers, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. “We've all seen this like a million times. The Executions of the rebels at the end of the war.” She hits play and the camera focuses slightly. Six figures, all with bags over their heads kneel on the stage erected in front of the Presidential Mansion. Snow stands behind them all – above them all – seated, straight-backed, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. (And yes, he has seen this a million times, but a chill runs up his spine nonetheless.)

The first bag comes off. The young man, broad shouldered, dark haired, squints, tries to figure out where he is. 

“That's Gale Hawthorne,” Wren says quietly, pressing one finger just to the left of where Gale's head appears on the screen. (Her nails are short, bitten to the cuticle.) That, Tristan has to admit to not knowing. The name only sounds vaguely familiar, something lost in the tomes that they've been forced to read about the war. 

Peacekeepers appear behind him. The gun is leveled at the back of Gale's head and then fired. (Wren has the sound off, so no burst of static through the speaker.) His body collapses to the left, boneless. 

The next bag comes off.

“Haymitch Abernathy,” Wren says, sliding her finger to the next man. “Winner of the 50th Hunger Games.” That name Tristan knows only slightly better, partially because of Haymitch's status as a victor and partially because of the role he played in the 74th Games and 75th Games. Haymitch glares at the camera and is succinctly shot as well. 

Wren follows the rest of the line, naming them off as they're revealed: “Beetee Latier,” “Cressida Templeton,” “Plutarch Heavensbee,” and finally, “Alma Coin.”

She's quiet for a moment after the video ends, the six bodies still on display. 

“So?” Tristan asks, daring to break the silence. He has no idea how this works into her theory.

“Those six were the only deaths from the rebellion that were televised,” Wren turns to him. 

“So?” he asks again.

“That doesn't strike you as odd?” Wren says. (She's practically rolling her eyes.)

“Which bit?” Tristan asks defensively. 

“ _Katniss Everdeen_ wasn't among them,” Wren says pointedly. “Neither was Johanna Mason or Finnick or Annie Odair. Besides Haymitch Abernathy and Beetee Latier, there is no video of any _victor_ being killed after the war.”

“There were pictures--”

Wren scoffs.

“Pictures are a lot _easier_ to fake than pretending to kill someone in front of a group of people,” Wren says definitively. She turns to the computer, begins typing again. A series of files fly up over the video.

“Look,” she says with conviction. “ _Look_. On Annie Odair's records, she's listed as pregnancy. And then she mysteriously dies, months later, around her due date.” 

“Wren,” Tristan answers, exasperated. He jabs the screen this time. “It says right here that the baby died with her. Besides, that's _one kid_ , not the dozens you're talking about.”

“No,” she snaps back at him. “It's a cover-up. I'm telling you, Snow sold that kid and decided to cook up a couple more. He _didn't_ kill the victors like he said he did. He kept them around and stole their children, and I bet they're still stashed out there somewhere,” she gestures with a wide sweep of her hand, “having to watch us. Because we were the last thing he could take from them, so he did. We were the last lesson.”

They stare at each for a few more seconds, neither one willing to give in. 

“Say I do believe you,” Tristan says finally. “Say, some part of this _insane_ theory is true. What then? What does it matter?”

“We have to find them,” Wren answers, as if it's an obvious conclusion. “They're _our_ parents. We need to find them.” He raises his eyebrows (because he keeps expecting for her to run herself into a dead end).

In turn she keeps talking: “He let one victor go that we all know of,” Wren says. She pulls up another schematic, although this it has to be purely for show, because this is another place he knows well. She jabs a finger at the colorful picture.

“We start with Peeta Mellark.”


	3. Chapter 3

He left her in the basement of the library. (It had been hard to boost himself back out of that narrow window, but he had managed, even though he had torn his shirt in the process.) She hadn't come after him. He had expected her to, honestly. She had obviously believed what she was telling him. He knew that at least. But even if she believed what she was saying, Tristan didn't know if he was ready to believe it.

So he had left her there, her face silhouetted by the blue glow of the computer. That was the end of it. He just wanted to forget about where he had spent tonight. 

He managed to sneak in at the very tail end of the interview. Rosie was the only one who had even noticed he was gone. She had asked, later, where he had been, and he didn't have the words to tell her, so he just shook his head. She accepted that, knew well enough that they didn't bother with lies and that he would tell her in his own time. She reached down and took his hand, gently. It was only then that he settled down. 

That was nearly a week ago.

The Capitol is finally starting to settle down from the latest Hunger Games. Business picks up as usual. Everyone is no longer riveted toward their televisions. There's even a lull where everyone is too wiped from this set of games to begin planning the next.

In turn, Tristan and Rosie begin planning their wedding. Eleanor picked out a planner for them, who is bubbly and cheerful, but strangely efficient too. She has crisp itineraries sent to them on days she needs them. Rosie is claimed first and goes on a whirlwind trip around the Capitol in search of _the perfect dress_. They're able to skip over a search for a venue. (They'll be married on the lawn of the Presidential Manor. White roses will be the primary flower choice although they're allowed to pick minor flowers to accompany them and an accent color.) 

Most of the decisions they're left with revolve around food, which doesn't bother Tristan in the slightest. They're slated to visit bakeries all weekends for cake-tasting, which is perhaps the thing they're more excited about. (Rosie had practically collapsed after a day of trying on dresses; she despairs of the remaining dress adventures – with jewelry, makeup, hair, and shoes to follow after.) 

So, the cake is really the first thing they get to do together, as a couple. The car rolls around to pick Tristan up promptly at noon. They tick further up town until they reach Rosie's. She comes downstairs, ducks through the mob of photographers waiting for her, and arrives in the backseat beside him. She smiles and leans in to kiss him.

“Hey you,” Tristan greets her. 

“Hey you,” she answers warmly, tucking herself against him. 

The car starts up again, slow, in the wake of photographers. 

Admittedly, Tristan doesn't pay much attention to where they're going. (Also, admittedly, he hasn't read their itinerary for the day. All he had seen was that they were doing _cake_ today.) 

So, he's more than a little surprised when the first place they pull up to is none other than Peeta Mellark's bakery, situated almost in the heart of the Capitol, and gifted to him at the end of the war for the services Peeta had done for the Capitol before he was taken by District 13.

“What are we doing here?” Tristan asks before he can stop himself.

Rosie pulls a face. 

“Cake,” she reminds him teasingly. “I wouldn't have thought _that_ would have slipped your mind so quickly.”

“No, I mean,” Tristan starts to say, but he finds that he doesn't know how to clarify. He almost says _here_ in particular, but the answer would be the same, wouldn't it?

Rosie pauses, her hand on the door handle. She reaches her other hand forward, rests it on his forearm.

“Are you okay?” she asks, peering up into his face.

“Yes,” he answers, but his response comes off almost defensive. 

“You've just been … off,” Rosie says. “Are you nervous?” 

“No,” he says immediately because he's not. (And if he was, he knows he could share that with her. But it's precisely because of the ease he has with her that he's not nervous.) 

Silence prevails for another second. He's been so busy trying to ignore everything that happened that he hasn't gotten around to explaining it to her. (He knows that's a mark against him. If it didn't mean anything, he would be able to say it without a problem. That truth sits heavy against his chest.)

“All right,” she says and then just offers her hand to him. A little more time bought again. He takes her hand and they slip out of the car. Berri is waiting for them by the door, practically shaking with excitement in her towering heels. She starts chattering at them immediately, outlining what she's picked out for them to try today. 

Tristan can't listen. He knows he really should try after worrying Rosie in the car. But he's too busy picking over what Wren had told him. Was Peeta Mellark really the first link in this? Besides Enobaria, who had returned to District Two, Peeta was the only “rebel” who was pardoned. They were told that Peeta had been forced to participate in the revolution against his will, and they had all seen the short videos that Peeta had filmed in the Capitol's defense. 

Tristan has been to the bakery before – who hasn't? Peeta is the victor of victors, one of their favorite war heroes. And besides the fact, the baked items are damn good. But he's never really thought of Peeta as anything other than the legend of almost mythical proportions; he's never seen him as an actual _person_.

The door bells jingle overhead and they're inside. Peeta himself is behind the counter, taking some fresh buns out of the oven. His back is to them at first, giving time for Tristan to study him. In his mid-30s, Peeta, if anything, is better looking than he had been as a teenager. He's grown into himself, still stocky, but with shoulders that have become broader over time. His face has been bled of its boyishness. As he turns, Tristan catches a glimpse of the spattering of lean. shiny burns that line Peeta's arms from where he's caught himself on the oven or a hot tray one too many times. 

He smiles when he sees them, but it's a reserved expression.

(Despite himself, Tristan catches himself looking; does Peeta look at him differently than anyone else? If he knew, he would have to, wouldn't he? That's not the kind of thing you can hide surely.) 

But no, Peeta certainly doesn't look at him any longer or with any more familiarity than he does Berri or Rosie. He nods at the girl at the counter, who flies out from behind it to help them. Meanwhile, Peeta retreats back into the kitchen.

They're led to a small table, a little out of the way that already has six pieces of cake in a neat line. Tristan sits down obediently beside Rosie. The girl in front of them prattles nervously, providing them with the same information that Berri had when he hadn't listened to her. 

He's just reaching for his fork when he looks up and sees who's sitting across the cramped cafe. Wren.

She smiles at him.

He feels as if she's kicked him. Some part of himself tells him not to get up, but he's moving before he can consider his actions. He strides across the cafe.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in a low voice, leaning into her.

“You're going to cause a scene,” Wren says. Her eyes flit up toward him for only a second, but other than that she doesn't move.

“You said--”

“I didn't say _I_ was going to stop just because you're too afraid to recognize the truth,” she hisses at him. 

“Go away,” he tells her. He doesn't dare touch her because he knows she's right. He can't afford to start a scene. (He actually doesn't know what to do. He just wants her to leave. He doesn't want her around him, and he doesn't want her around Rosie.)

She looks up at him again. (Her eyes are piercing. They're just brown, nothing particularly noteworthy in color, but they have a tenacity that holds him in place.) She gets up slowly, gathering her bag and shouldering it. But then, instead of heading toward the door, she heads toward the back of the cafe – and into the kitchen. He falters but is too afraid of letting her wander off on her own. He hurries after her.

“You can't be in here!” he hisses at her.

“If you weren't being such a _tool_ this wouldn't look as suspicious as you're making it,” Wren answers back tartly. She doesn't bother to lower her voice. She does wave a hand at him. “Go back out there and keep playing house with princess, all right?”

He wants to _shake_ her; how did he let this into his life? Before he can even think of a scathing response though, Peeta suddenly reappears from the upstairs. 

All of them freeze, almost comically so. It's hard to tell who's the most surprised, although Tristan would probably put his money on Peeta. 

“You're not allowed back here,” Peeta ends up saying calmly, wiping his hands on his apron. (But he doesn't seem to know them is all Tristan can think again.) Wren must be drawing the same conclusion, because she starts to say something, talks half a step forward, and then seems to lose her nerve. 

“Wren,” Tristan presses. He grabs her arm. She looks back at him with such a hunted expression that he lets her go. There's a shining vulnerability there that he's never seen that clearly in her before. To be fair, with all his thoughts in the last week, he's never stopped to wonder over what's driving her so strongly to find this out. He doesn't know the kind of house she was raised in, doesn't know if this revelation has rocked the foundation of her world or given her something new to build upon – or both.

“Please,” Wren says pleadingly to Peeta. She stops a few feet in front of him. “We need your help.”

Peeta looks between the two of them with a marked wariness. He doesn't say anything. Tristan expects Wren to launch into her rambling explanations, to pull her dogeared evidence out of her jacket.

Instead, all she asks is, “Do you know us?”

“Tristan Aldjoy and Wren Le Beau,” Peeta answers _almost_ instantly, looking first back at Tristan and then to Wren. (But there's something else there. The casualness of his tone is too pronounced. For the first time since Wren grabbed him on the street, his stomach tightens strangely. This can't be true. It can't be. If this is true, everything else is a lie.)

“Dad?” someone calls from upstairs. 

“Stay upstairs, Gemma,” Peeta calls, only turning his head slightly toward the noise. Wren makes a funny noise in the back of her throat. Peeta looks toward her, and Tristan sees it – a hint of guilt. Was that what he had seen before? This flicker is gone just as quickly. Tristan wants to pretend that he didn't see it. He didn't, did he? He made it up, didn't he? 

“You should head back out front,” Peeta says gently. He walks toward Wren and she has no choice but to head back toward the swinging doors they came through. Her face is drawn and pale though. She looks as if she's about to start shaking. 

She heads out first, and Tristan moves to follow her without question. Peeta grabs his arm though, pulls him close just for a moment.

“Stop,” Peeta says quietly enough that no one can hear them. “And be more careful.”

Peeta releases him. Tristan looks up at him, certain his shock is evident on his face. He knows what Peeta is trying to tell him: this line of questioning is dangerous and that they're going to get hurt if they press it. 

But instead, all Tristan hears is that Wren is right. It's all true.

…

He is numb through the rest of the afternoon. He goes through the motions to the best of his abilities, but he's not terribly good at pretending. Rosie keeps looking at him – and when he doesn't respond to that, she presses her arm against his, pushes his hand against thigh, tries to get him to either share what's wrong or at least pay attention. He can't do either. 

(Wren left the bakery immediately. He doesn't know if that makes things better or worse.)

He's adopted. His parents are not his parents. He was given to his parents to _punish_ someone else. (Or did they buy him?) The gap between himself and his older brother and sister takes on a new light; do they know? They were teenagers at the end of the war. Surely they had to notice that their mother hadn't actually been pregnant before he showed up. (He strains to recall pictures of his mother big with him, but he doesn't think there're pictures of her pregnant with _any_ of them.) Did his brother and sister just know he was adopted, or did they have all the pieces?

And what about his real parents then? He's old enough that he could be the Odair baby that was listed on the file as dying with Annie Odair. (But when is his real birthday? Even that is thrown into question now. How old is he _really_?) And if he is that baby, and he didn't die, did Annie Odair? Did Finnick Odair? Are he and Wren _related_? She had said that one of the Snows was adopted too – although she had insisted it wasn't Rosie. 

Something about the idea of these kids spattered strategically throughout the city, all of them being secretly related, makes Tristan feel weak. 

And _Peeta_ – Peeta has a daughter here. It had been a big deal when little Gemma Mellark had made her entrance into the world; Tristan wonders over that now. If Peeta believed what he had done for the Capitol during the war was the right thing, that would explain how he could settle in the Capitol and have a family here. But if he knows about _them_ – does he condone it? He had _warned_ them though, told Tristan it was dangerous. He works himself in circles over what Peeta can be _thinking_ , about where his loyalties lie and how much knowledge he actually has.

He wants to head back into the kitchen and insist on more answers. 

He hears his own question to Wren reflected back at himself: If this is all true, what can they do about it?

It's so long ago. It would be easier and safer to let it all go. (But can he do that? How can he? When nearly everyone in his life has lied to him?) He stares blankly at Rosie for a moment. He loves her; he loves her no matter what, but their entire life rests on this foundation of lies. How can they build more on that?

They go to three more bakeries after Peeta's. He's able to shake things off a little more there, plays his part a little better. 

The sun is just beginning to set when the car crawls back toward Rosie's place first. Tristan feels jittery from too much sugar. 

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” Rosie asks quietly. 

“I will,” Tristan promises. “But I don't know how right now.” 

It's the truth – and she knows it, but, if anything, it only elevates her worries. They've never had anything they couldn't talk about before. Despite that, she nods. She trusts him – in the same way he trusts her. He knows she would carry this burden alongside him, but he doesn't know how to give voice to what he's going through yet, particularly because he hasn't sorted out what's true and what's not. He hasn't sorted out what he wants through this tangled mess. 

He walks her to her door, kisses her goodnight, and then gets back into the car.

“Take me back to Peeta's,” he commands the driver. He doesn't offer any explanation for why they're going back. As soon as they arrive, Tristan dismisses the car. He doesn't know what he's going to do, but he doesn't want a car waiting for him. He'll walk home if he has to. 

He doesn't go to the front but heads around back. He shifts from one foot to the other and then knocks on the door. He doesn't hear anything. He knocks, again, too soon, but his nerves have gotten to him. This time, he hears footsteps pounding down steps. 

It's not Peeta who answers, but Gemma Mellark. She has to be around 11 now, and she's strangely lanky. Her hair – the same blonde as Peeta's – is dyed a dark pink around the bottom, and her eyes are a strange grey that take Tristan aback.

“Oh,” she says, not exactly impolitely. “It's you.” 

She retreats without saying anything else. Tristan hears her shout for Peeta in the kitchen. Peeta surfaces, still saying something to Gemma over his shoulder when he sees Tristan. He is not pleased to see him again.

“Please,” Tristan says before Peeta can even say anything. Peeta's eyes flit upward – Tristan doesn't know what he's looking at. He almost glances over his shoulder, but Peeta puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Tristan starts at the touch. Peeta holds him there for a second and then another, and then pushes him back out into the alley. 

“The entire bakery is bugged,” Peeta says. “And there's a camera system that covers the Capitol.”

“They won't be able to hear us,” Tristan says clumsily; he's struggling to keep up with this conversation, with this sudden change of pace. He stumbles after Peeta who is keeping a brisk pace.

“They can enhance the image to read our lips,” Peeta says. “Just follow me. If I change the subject, keep up.”

Tristan nods. His knees feel weak, and his brain sluggish. What has he gotten himself involved in?

He watches the cameras as they walk. Each time they found one, it clicks into a new position as they pass. Peeta has timed it so they're usually not being watched.

“How much do you know?” Peeta asks. 

“Wren thinks we're adopted,” Tristan manages to say. The words are surreal coming from his mouth. “That there are others like us?” The last part is a question, and he can't help it. He looks at Peeta, waiting for the verbal confirmation of what Peeta had all but explicitly told him earlier.

“What are you trying to do?” Peeta asks instead.

“Just …” Tristan trails off. “Find out the truth.”

“The less you know, the safer you'll be,” Peeta answers, echoing his earlier warning. “If you find out too much, they'll kill you.”

Even with everything he's learned, those words still sound paranoid, a conspiratorial edge to them. After all, he's grown up amongst the Snow family. He tries to imagine Eleanor actually putting out the order for him to be killed, and he can't. But then again, neither could he have imagined this strange web that has been woven around him.

“It's not a game,” Peeta warns, looking at him for the first time. There's a smear of flour on one of his cheeks. The expression he wears … Tristan has never seen a human being look more defeated before. He's taken aback. (Whatever happened to him at the end of the war is only a fraction of what they were seen and what they were told.)

“They're not all dead, are they?” Tristan realizes suddenly. “The other victors?” Wren was right. There is more to find. Peeta wouldn't be warning them off so vehemently if the height of the secret was their sheer existence. This goes deeper. 

“What sort of frosting are you going to want on that?” Peeta asks with a sudden, brighter interest. (His accent changes as well, becomes more Capitol pronounced. Tristan hadn't even noticed that his twang from Twelve had become more defined the longer they had talked.)

“Buttercream,” Tristan answers, with an ease that surprises even him. “Custard-based.”

They walk past one camera, and then another, and then they're off grid again.

“Are my parents still alive?” Tristan presses as soon as the camera clicks away from them.

“No,” Peeta answers immediately. He misses a step, finds himself just behind Peeta. 

“You can't help the others,” Peeta says gently, turning to press an hand to his arm. He doesn't look up at the cameras to check where they are, but Tristan can tell he's having a hard time not doing exactly that. He waits a few beats before saying anything else.

“So, it's time to let this go,” Peeta continues. He forces Tristan to start walking, back in the other direction, back toward the bakery.

“You just told me that my girlfriend's family would kill me for this,” Tristan hisses, upset. “And then, in the next breath, you tell me to go back and pretend with them _anyway_?”

“Yes,” Peeta answers, no additional explanation.

“You're telling me less than you know,” Tristan snaps. Peeta puts a hand to his arm, slows him down so they're not rushing ahead of the cameras. (Fuck the cameras, Tristan thinks.) 

“Tristan,” Peeta says, exasperated.

“How many of us are there?” Tristan presses.

Peeta is quiet. For a second, Tristan thinks it's because they're in the line of a camera. But when he glances up, it's facing away from them. No, Peeta is weighing how much to tell him. 

“Six,” Peeta answers. 

Six. Wren has only found five so far. There is at least one more that they don't know about, assuming that the rest of the lists match. 

“Gemma,” Tristan says suddenly. He hadn't even known the idea had occurred to him until he says Peeta's daughter's name out loud, but then there it is, wavering in the air. “Gemma is one of us.” He watches for Peeta's reaction, but he's sure of what he's saying anyway. Peeta Mellark may have married to a Capitolite, but his daughter's mother is another victor. 

“No,” Peeta answers, too measured.

“How did you get her?” Tristan presses. (He's still having a hard time reading where Peeta's loyalties lie. He had to play along, didn't he, if he managed to get Gemma? What happened to Gemma's mother? He wonders, just for an instant, if they're still making victor kids; that's more chilling than anything else. But if there's only six of them, it seems unlikely. Unless Peeta doesn't know about all of them. What if the six are just the ones that Peeta has been let in on?)

“I did a lot,” Peeta says sharply. He looks at Tristan with a hard look, and Tristan suspects that, if they weren't trying to keep up with the cameras, Peeta's forearm would be against his throat right now. 

“You're putting my family in danger now,” Peeta presses. “So I'm only going to tell you this once more: You need to stop.” (Tristan is still reeling from the revelation that Gemma Mellark is _one of them_ and that Peeta admitted it.)

“So only Gemma deserves to be saved?” Tristan asks, his anger flaring back up. “What made her so special that you could let the rest of your kids be traded about the Capitol? What did you do that made you so valuable that you got to stay here while all the other victors got thrown away?”

Peeta clenches both his hands. (They're nearly back at the bakery.) Peeta exhales slowly. 

“My punishment was to stay here,” Peeta says darkly. Before Tristan can ask another question, Peeta picks up his pace. Peeta's back in line of the cameras. He heads to the back door of the bakery, turns to face Tristan one last time.

“Good night, Mr. Aldjoy,” he says and then is gone, the door closed once again. Tristan stares at the back door for a few seconds. He's tempted to knock again. But he's aware of the cameras, heavy at his back, in a way he's never been before. (He'd always thought they were for his protection until now. But the world is shifting slowly around him, and he now wonders how closely he has been watched until this point. How long has the world been watching for his rebel blood to show up?) So, he doesn't knock again and he doesn't stand there too long. He heads back out to the main street.

He's heard all Peeta Mellark is willing to tell him after all. It's up to him – and Wren – to decide what they're going to do with that information. He considers flagging down a car, but then doesn't. He knows there are cameras all the way down the streets to Wren's house. But if they're going to watch him the whole way, he's going to make them work for it. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking.

…

Wren closes the door in his face when she first sees him. He sighs and then knocks again. He can hear Wren moving on the other side of the door, measuring out the seconds she makes him wait. She opens up the door again, looking unimpressed.

“What do _you_ want?” she asks.

“To apologize,” he answers, because he figures that's the easiest – and safest – way to get her to listen.

“Oh,” Wren says, obviously surprised. “All right. Come in.” She gestures him inside. He's been here a handful of times before, all for military ceremonies. He's never paid much attention to the house before, and it feels strange without the presence of a hundred other people in here with him. There are a handful of pictures of Wren around the main room, but most of them are family photographs, pristinely posed. There are only two where she isn't tucked in between her mom and dad: One where she won some sort of an award at school; she's young in that one, missing one of front teeth, her body gangly, her smile genuine. The only entirely unposed one is her (at least, Tristan assumes it's her) on a horse, jumping over a rail. Wren isn't facing the camera, probably unaware the picture has been taken. She can't be much older than 12 in that one.

Tristan wonders what his own family looks like to an outsider. Less austere than this, he likes to think, but he was the third child in his family. His siblings gave a lot of cover. (He's still been trying to avoid thinking about them because it pinches strangely at his heart. It's easier to think about Wren's parents lying to her than his own.)

“Have you--” Tristan starts to ask, but Wren waves at him to be quiet. She pulls something out of a bag slung over a chair and plugs it into a socket in the wall. She waits, for just a second, and then nods.

“We can talk now,” she says.

“What did you do?” Tristan asks, looking about.

“We'll have about half an hour of recorded silence,” Wren answers. “They'll think we left the house.” 

He's quiet for a moment. After everything else he's heard, it shouldn't come as a surprise that they're recorded at home too. But somehow it still is.

“I talked to Peeta,” Tristan says awkwardly. 

Wren watches him, still wearing that unimpressed look. She crosses her arms in front of her, leans back against the wall, and waits for him to continue.

“He said there are six of us,” Tristan prompts.

“Oh, it's us now, is it?” Wren scoffs.

“Wren,” Tristan says, exasperated. “Come on.” He doesn't know what else to say. Had she really thought that he was going to believe this insane theory right away? But he does see something give in her: relief, maybe. He's reminded of her saying she had been trying to figure out how to tell him for weeks. He feels a little bad for her then because this sort of secret is so large to carry by herself. It must have been terrifying to have shared it with him – finally – and then wait to see how he would fall.

“I'm sorry,” Tristan continues, more gently, giving her the promised apology. “It was hard for me to believe, all right?” Even now, some part of him is still expecting to wake up. It's easier to believe this now that he's hiding in Wren's house in the dark of night. But tomorrow morning will be a different day where he'll see his parents again and continue to go through the motions of getting ready for the wedding. Right now, he might as well be in a different world. He's a different person. But tomorrow will call for him to be him again, but he doesn't know how to be that person anymore. 

So, he needs Wren as much as she must need him. They have to carry this weight together. It's the only way they're going to survive.

Wren nods. 

“What else did Peeta tell you?” Wren asks by way of accepting his apology.

“Gemma Mellark is one of us,” Tristan says. He expects her to be just as blown away by this revelation as he was, but she just nods again.

“That makes sense,” she says. 

“He also said that Finnick and Annie Odair are dead,” Tristan says slowly. (He's afraid to say these words. The names still feel weird to him to say aloud. He's not sure how much connection he should feel to them yet. Also, some part of him doesn't know if he wants Wren to confirm that as quickly as she did Gemma's parentage. Does he want this taken from him or not? If they're dead, what can he do? If they're not, is he expected to find them?)

But Wren just makes a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat.

“Was he telling the truth?” Tristan presses.

“I don't know,” Wren admits. “As far as I can tell, you're the only kid Annie had out of the mix. So, she might have actually died. Finnick had a couple more kids, but, I mean, it's not like he needed to be around to do that.” She pauses. “Did Peeta say anything else?”

“That we shouldn't do anything because it's dangerous,” Tristan says, and then, off hand, adds, “And that being brought here was his punishment.”

He doesn't expect a reaction to either of those things, but her eyes light up at the second comment.

“See,” Wren says, waggling a finger at him. “That is why I think other victors might still be alive. He did something to each of them to punish them. I think each punishment has to be different, right?” It seemed plausible enough to Tristan but still seemed too vague to give them an actual lead. 

“Let's assume that they're all alive,” Wren continues. “We're looking for Katniss Everdeen, Finnick and Annie Odair, and Johanna Mason.” Tristan wishes he had paid more attention during history class now because he's struggling to remember anything about any of these victors other than that they were a part of the Hunger Games and then the war.

“So, Katniss and Peeta were separated, right?” Wren says, moving through her thoughts. “So, Annie and Finnick were probably separated, too, right? It would make sense if Finnick was still in the Capitol somewhere too. He was really popular here before he switched sides during the war and married Annie. So, if that was all a lie for some reason, it would make sense to stick him back here to deal with that.” She runs one hand through her short hair. “But where? Where could they stick him where he wouldn't be recognized?” 

“What if his appearance was changed?” Tristan asks. 

Wren frowns, but she doesn't dismiss the idea right away, so it must be a plausible one.

“We'll never find him then,” Wren says. “All right. So, Johanna Mason pretended to be weak to win her games. So, where would you put someone who didn't want to seem weak...” She trails off, but Tristan has no answers to this one. 

“Annie Cresta was the crazy one,” Wren says, and then pauses. “Or they wanted us to think she was crazy.” And then there's that sudden light of inspiration again. Wren turns on her heel and heads down the hallway. She steps in front of a set of elaborate mahogany doors, pulls a key out of her sock, and opens it.

“My dad's study,” Wren says, obviously proud of herself, as she lets them in. She leads them behind the desk in the room, where a huge map of the Capitol is pinned. Most of the city, Tristan is familiar with. After all, he's grown up here, traversed nearly every inch of the main part of the city. But there are parts that extend beyond what Tristan knows about. The city extends beyond what they've been told its boundaries are.

“Here,” Wren says, boosting herself up onto a chair so she can point to a compound north of the city. (A place they've been told doesn't exist.) Even on this map, it's unlabeled.

“This is an asylum,” Wren says, looking over her shoulder and down at Tristan. “After the war, they had a lot of soldiers who lost it. They send them here so that people won't find out about them. Not good for morale, right – especially after we were supposed to have an easy win. They _still_ send soldiers there who crack up. Maybe they sent Annie Odair there after the war.”

“How do we get there?” Tristan asks. “If we're not supposed to know about it? We don't know if she's even actually there, and if she is, she's probably not listed under Annie Odair.” (Tristan's heart beats faster even as he says it. His mother could still be alive, but could have been shunted to an asylum for crazies after she had him. Would it be better for her to be dead than to have suffered through that for the last 18 years? 

“I'll have to see what I can find out about it in the military database,” Wren answers. “But we can focus on the asylum for now, okay?”

Tristan nods. 

Wren jumps down off the chair, and for a minute, he thinks, they both feel this strange sense of vulnerability. They have a plan, one that they have no idea of knowing its chance of success. It's just the two of them, left picking up the pieces of what was broken years ago.

“Are you okay?” Tristan asks. He puts a hand out, intending to touch her, but doesn't quite manage it. She drops her gaze from his and tucks her hands inside the long sleeves of her sweater.

“Yeah, of course,” she answers, but it's a quiet answer coming from her.

“I just mean,” Tristan says, “It must have been hard. Doing this on your own for so long.” 

“Well, I've made it this far,” Wren says with a shrug. He wants to say more, but Wren heads back out of the study, locking it behind them.

“Our half an hour is almost up,” she says. “You should probably get going.”

“Okay,” Tristan says because he's not sure what else to say now. 

“I'll let you know when I find something,” Wren promises. 

They walk toward the door together, and they both pause for a moment. Tristan isn't sure if he's actually going to say anything. 

“I'll see you then,” is all that comes out. Wren nods and opens the door for him. He heads back out into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

The day after next he has to himself. They don't have any wedding schedule, and his parents (thankfully) are out of town on vacation. He wanders around the house, looks at all the pictures of himself from when he's younger, tries to see his life through the same lens that he had viewed Wren's. Did his parents regret what they had done? What _had_ they done to earn a spot at the first victor baby? Had they bought him? Had he had been a reward? Had they ever considered telling him the truth? How well had they known his real parents?

But the house yields no answers. It's the same house he's always grown up in; there are no secret rooms full of information about where he came from. 

He has to do better, he realizes. He's surrounded by people who are constantly lying, and doing it well, and by people who watching him, waiting to see where he's going to land. If he and Wren are going to get through this, he has to be seamless in his appearances. Everything has to go on exactly as it's been.

The hardest thing: Does he tell Rosie? 

In the end, there's only one answer. And that's yes. He can't pretend with her. He needs her on his side, the same as he always has. He knows he needs to wait for the right time though. A time when they're not being watched or surrounded by other people. 

He knows this might put her in danger too. But he can live with that. (He thinks.) 

…

Wren gets in touch with him a few days later. She has something: She's managed to get a photographed database of every single patient in the asylum.

(“What if the photographs are fake?” Tristan asks.

“This is the best we have right now,” Wren shrugs. “Besides, who's supposed to see this besides the military?”)

So, they sit, for hours, in Wren's room, paging through pictures of the people who have been locked up in Panem for being mentally unwell. They make false conversation while they do this, because Wren says they need to use their blocks of silence sparingly and carefully. They talk about school projects that don't exist, celebrity gossip, the plans for the wedding. Anything that has no meaning and can be discussed off hand becomes incorporated into their charade. 

When Tristan dreams, he sees those rows and rows of faces, each with a name, patient number, and “illness” stamped beside their black-and-white image. 

They look for any of the victors. Tristan has gotten used to looking at the wanted posters that President Snow issued at the end of the war. He now knows every similarity he and Finnick Odair share. He's gotten used to that thousand-mile stare, the broad jaw. He looks for himself in Annie Odair as well. She looks kind, even in the images issued of her. Nothing about her seems to smack of craziness, just a soft tenderness. He tries to imagine them together; he wonders how they met, what it was like for two victors to be together. He wants to ask Wren what else she knows about them, but he doesn't dare. 

They also set limits on their time together. They're on day three of looking through the images when Wren suddenly pauses. Tristan is in the middle of telling her about his first suit fitting. She isn't laughing when she should be, so he looks up. Her hands are shaking.

“What?” Tristan asks. 

Her eyes flit up to him. She shoves some of her hair behind her ear and then jumps to her feet. She grabs the block that gives them silence and plugs into the wall. She waits the few seconds it takes to kick in and then rushes back to her dropped sheet of paper. (Tristan's heart starts to hammer wildly. Have they finally found Annie?)

Wren shoves the paper across the floor to him. 

“That's Johanna Mason,” Wren whispers, her eyes wide. 

Tristan looks down at the pixelated image, at the woman staring back at him. Her face is gaunt, dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair is shaved down to her scalp, but there's no mistaking her. It _is_ Johanna Mason. The name doesn't match, but the image does. He looks back up at Wren – and he sees it, suddenly, for the first time.

“She's your mom,” he says. A statement, not a question.

“I think so,” Wren answers, taking the paper back with a surprising amount of tenderness. 

“Finnick Odair is your dad,” Tristan continues. She hadn't reacted like this when she had seen Peeta. They're the only two men out of the little group. Wren looks up at him, a solemn expression on her face. She's had this theory for awhile. It's not new. If she's right – about his birth parents and hers – they're half siblings. They share blood. 

Tristan doesn't know what to say to that. He wants to say something, but the idea of it overwhelms him. 

“What do we do next?” Tristan asks instead.

“We need to finish going through the patients,” Wren says. “Just to make sure Johanna is the only one.” It's clear that she thinks Johanna _is_ the only one, but they need to know that for sure. 

“What then?” Tristan presses. 

“I don't know,” Wren admits. They've found yet another victor – one, who, technically, is in the boundaries of the Capitol, but surrounded by all manners of blockades. She's in a facility they shouldn't even know about. There are guards and doctors there. There's no way they can slip in unnoticed. 

Tristan also doesn't dare to mention that they have no way of knowing what it is that has been done to Johanna for however long she's been in this facility. No one knows she's still alive. Anything could have been done to her. Wren has to know this already. (She's always a step ahead of him when it comes to things of this nature.) He knows she's already working on cooking up a plan. So he doesn't press her. He lets her take the block back out of the wall and doesn't disturb her when she sets Johanna's sheet aside from the others. She keeps looking back to it all afternoon.

…

It doesn't take them long to finish up the images. He continues going to her house once a week for a few weeks, just to keep up the routine. But Wren doesn't have a plan any of the times he comes to visit. She doesn't steal them silence. They sit and have pretend conversations (which gradually do become real conversations). They might get on each other's nerves a lot, but they also get along fairly well. ( _Brother and sister_ , Tristan can't help thinking.)

Weeks pass, inching them closer to the wedding. He still hasn't managed to tell Rosie. He must be getting better at lying though – or Rosie is just getting busier – because she hasn't pressed him on what's wrong lately. 

He worries though: What if their wedding happens before he manages to tell her? What if their wedding happens before this is all wrapped up? (Can it ever be wrapped up, really?) 

He finds it shockingly easy to avoid his parents – or at least to interact with them in ways that are superficial. He avoids real conversations; he's able to limit their interactions to questions about the wedding. (On that, his parents are a never-ending supply of advice.) Sometimes he finds himself watching them though, and he's tempted to just spring the question on them: _Why did you take me_? He just wants to see their reactions. He thinks, in that moment, only then will he really know what kind of people they are.

He's doing okay though. He doesn't ask that question. 

And then he's caught off guard.

His oldest sister, Ashleen, holds a surprise wedding shower for them. (Why does it need to be a surprise? Everyone in all of Panem knows they're getting married.) Abruptly, Tristan is in a room with his entire family – his parents, Ashleen and her children, and his brother, Phox. They're all playing family, and Tristan feels bizarrely left out, even though this whole celebration is about _him_ and Rosie.

He starts grabbing flutes of champagne anytime an Avox servant comes down, swallowing them down in mouthfuls when he's certain that no one's watching him too closely. Ashleen keeps pulling him across the room, forcing him and Rosie to take photos with all the people who have shown up. He can't help himself. (Does this person know the truth? Are they in on the secret? Are they all laughing at him, because he thinks he's an Aldjoy, someone who belongs here, but he's really an Odair? Do they pity him?) 

He's drunk (although handling himself well) by the time the Snows show up. It's not President Eleanor, of course; she couldn't be expected to come to something like this. But Rosie's oldest sister, Elise, with her daughter, Willow. Willow might be Rosie's niece, but they're practically the same age and Willow is set to be Rosie's maid of honor. Rosie goes to her immediately, tugs her into the room, shoves a flute of champagne into her hand.

“Hi Tristan,” Willow says wryly, smiling almost conspiratorially at him. Tristan blinks. He's known Willow as long as he's known Rosie – all of his life that matters. But something new clicks into place. He doesn't know what it is – the fact that he's questioning everyone around him, but most likely it's Willow's eyes. They're the same odd grey as Gemma Mellark's. (Willow usually wears contacts, something audacious, and why is it that, today of all days, she has decided not to?) Tristan is immediately taken back to his first conversation with Wren: one of the Snows – not Rosie – is not a Snow at all. Willow. Of course. 

“Excuse me,” Tristan says, trying for sweetness, and feeling like he must be missing the mark.

Rosie tries to stop him, says something about presents, but Tristan manages to wriggle his way through the crowd and out the back door. The garden is closed off today, and he sinks down onto a stone bench and downs another flute of champagne. His hands feel strangely numb. He wishes Wren were here – and no, he doesn't, because she would just roll her eyes at him for being such an idiot and for taking so long to figure out who she was talking about. 

Is there anybody in his life who is who they've claimed to be?

He hears footsteps behind him and assumes it's Rosie. It's time to tell her the truth. Here. He's going to do it now and then beg her forgiveness. When he looks over his shoulder ready to blurt out the truth, it's not Rosie at all. It's Ashleen.

“Ash,” he says dumbly.

“What are you doing,” Ashleen says, dropping down onto the bench next to him while lighting up a thin cigarette, “Hiding out in the garden, drunk off your face, when you should be inside celebrating at the very elegantly arranged party I threw for you?” She smiles at him and then playfully blows a mouthful of smoke into his face.

He coughs, bats the smoke away, and scowls at her.

“Did you know I'm adopted?” 

The words are out of him, barbed, before he can call them back. He watches, with some small measure of vindictive happiness, as the smile drops off Ashleen's face. Ashleen sighs. (She did know. His heart skips a beat. His _sister_ did know, and she didn't tell him. If she knows that means Phox knows. His _siblings_ , the ones who were always with him against the world, against their parents, against everything, have kept _this_ against him.) 

“Tris,” she says, withdrawn. “You are, like, the worst kept secret in all of Panem.”

He doesn't know what to say to that.

“I told Mom and Dad that they should have told you a long time ago,” Ashleen continues. “I mean, you're just the _spitting image_ of Finnick. You were bound to find out sooner or later.” She smiles at him, almost fondly. “I'm surprised it took you this long.” She speaks with a cavalierness, especially about Finnick, that Tristan hadn't expected.

“What?” Tristan says, flush with irritation. “So it's just _okay_ that Mom and Dad,” He doesn't mean to call them that, but he does all the same, “ _stole_ me from my real parents?” 

Ashleen rolls her eyes.

“Calm down,” she reprimands him. “You're blowing this way out of proportion. Mom and Dad didn't _steal_ you from anyone. And your _real parents_? Finnick and that crazy girl might have _made_ you, but Mom and Dad have been the ones who have loved you and taken care of you all of your life, Tris. Your so-called 'real parents' died in the rebellion because they were too busy causing trouble instead of _being_ parents. Mom and Dad wanted you to have a better life instead of always just being labeled as some war orphan.” She looks at him dubiously. “I don't know what you've heard, but there's no crazy conspiracy here, Tris. We're your family. We're the ones who love you and always want what's best for you.”

She reaches down and squeezes his hand.

“You're making trouble where there really isn't.” 

(Is he? He can't think clearly. He _wants_ to believe her. That is something simple, understandable, like she's laid it out to be. But he also remembers Peeta, looking haunted, telling him to be more careful. He remembers the look of Johanna Mason, stashed away in some insane asylum. Are they wrong? Is Peeta burned out from the war? Is the woman _not_ Johanna Mason? Are he and Wren finding clues to a mystery that doesn't exist?)

“Did you know him?” Tristan asks because he can't help but ask. “Finnick Odair?”

Ashleen is obviously not overly pleased by his continuing questions, but, to her credit, she answers. 

“I am _only_ telling you this so you know the truth, do you understand? So that you stop listening to whatever garbage you've obviously been paying attention to?” She looks at him, making an attempt at looking stern. “Finnick was over the house all the time after he won his games. Mom and Dad sponsored him, so he was a good friend of the family. Phox and I grew up with him around. When it came out that he had teamed up with the rebels during the war, Mom and Dad were _crushed_. After everything our family had done for him. I think they hoped it would be found that Finnick had been forced – like Peeta Mellark. But we never found out what drove Finnick to the other side.” Ashleen smiles sadly at him. “When they found out about you, they figured it was another chance to do things right.” She squeezes his hand again.

She leans in and hugs him.

“Let this go, please,” she says quietly into his ear. “There's nothing more to know, and you'll drive yourself crazy over this.” 

“Okay,” Tristan answers. She kisses him on the cheek and then finishes off her cigarette.

“I'll stall for you for a few more minutes,” she says with a wink before she heads back inside.

He sits there for a few moments more, wondering if he's just lied to her or himself.

…

“I have a plan,” Wren says the next time he sees her. She has a computer balanced on her lap and is typing without looking up at him. He stays in the doorway to her bedroom and just looks for a moment. He feels as if he's waking up from a dream – a bad one, granted – but he's left with this off-balance sensation, as if he isn't sure of where he is.

“No,” he says, a belated response.

That catches her attention. She pauses, looks up at him.

“You haven't even heard it yet,” she scoffs.

“I'm done,” Tristan says, making his voice sound stronger than he feels. “I'm not doing this anymore.”

She stares at him hard, disbelief spasming across her face. She masks it quickly, shifting between anger and resent, but settling on something stern. She springs up from her seat on the ground, tossing the computer to the side, where it bounces once on her bed. And then she _slaps_ him. 

He hadn't known what to expect from her. Not that. His cheek stings and he glares down at her. 

“Who've you been talking to?” she accuses. (Spot on, per usual.) 

“No one,” he lies. 

“Yeah?” Wren asks; she's practically gritting her teeth. 

“This is stupid, Wren,” he tells her, the comment meaner than he had intended. (When he had rehearsed this, he had imagined this conversation going more neatly. Him backing out, her understanding. This becoming something in their past that they ignored had happened. An odd misstep, a childish game of sorts.)

“What do you think you're going to accomplish even if you find them?” Tristan asks. “You can't change anything. You're just looking for some way to feel special, but this is just going to hurt a lot of people. Let it go.” 

“You need this too,” she accuses him.

“I don't,” Tristan answers solemnly. “I know where I belong. I'm getting married. I'm happy with what I have. I don't need this to tell me anything.”

“Get out,” Wren spits. She shoves at his shoulder. When he is barely moved an inch, she pushes at him again, with more force. 

“Get out! Get out!” she shouts at him until she actually gets him out the door. She slams it shut behind him, but it doesn't matter. He heads out the front door, keeps walking too fast until he's in the center of the city and doesn't know where he is at all. (That's a lie. He knows this city as if its streets are his life blood. He's always home, no matter where he is here. He traces his way back to Rosalind.)

…

Six months after the end of the 93rd Hunger Games (six months after Tristan Aldjoy found out that his blood is not Aldjoy blood after all) he has dinner with Vanora. (It's an early wedding present, or a late engagement one, depending on how you look at it, from the Snows to Rosie and him.) They spend the first part of their evening at one of the most expensive restaurants in the Capitol. 

Rosie relaxes into him as they quiz Vanora on the more interesting parts of her games. (She's prettier, more polished, and even funnier than she had been during her Hunger Games, and Tristan can't help but laugh.)

His life has fallen back into its normal grooves. It's as if the weeks with Wren never happened. Even Rosie is no longer side-eyeing him with obvious worry. The wedding is all but compiled, just a few more months away. Their invitations have gone out to all of the Capitol's elite. 

(Ashleen had squeezed him the last time she had seen him, quietly whispered, “I'm proud of you.”)

They finish up dinner with another round of drinks and two large slices of cake before they're whisked a few blocks over to one of the top-tier clubs. It wouldn't be difficult for them to get in usually, not between the two of them, but with Vanora at their side, they're easily the center of attention tonight. (A new victor in the crowd is always a source of attention, a focal point. Vanora soaks up the fame in turn, artfully playing between impressed but not overwhelmed.)

Tristan procures another round of drinks for the three of them. They sit only long enough to drink them before Rosie pulls them all out onto the dance floor. Vanora keeps shouting things at the two of them, but they can't hear her over the heavy thud of the bass, so Rosie just keeps laughing at everything. She slinks her arms around Tristan's neck, presses her mouth to the shell of his ear.

“I love you,” she says. She smiles up at him when she pulls away, and he leans in to kiss her. The whole world disappears away from them. (He still keeps having this moment where he can't believe that he almost gave this up, gave her up, for something uncertain.) She laughs again, into his mouth, the sound lost to the music. 

She winks at him and then pulls deftly away, heading back toward the bar.

Vanora shouts something at him, but he shakes his head, indicating he doesn't know what she asked him. She gestures him forward with two fingers. He looks around, trying to spot where Rosie went, but Vanora latches one hand around his wrist. He follows after her, assuming they'll head back toward the booth where they started the evening. Instead, Vanora pulls him past it, into the labyrinth back of the club – where even Tristan has never been. If they're somewhere they're not supposed to be, no one seems to notice. 

Vanora pulls him all the way to one of the last rooms. She smiles over her shoulder at him, tugs the curtain aside, and then there's relative quiet. The thump of the music is a secondary thought. Tristan appraises the room for just an instant – just out of curiosity. There's a huge, white couch curved around the back of the room, more cushion than anything else. A dark wooden table is in front of it, with a vase of flowers, a bottle of champagne (unopened) with three glasses, and an assorted platter of snacks next to it. Tristan pops a grape into his mouth.

“Rosie--” Tristan starts to say, turning back toward the curtain. 

“Will catch up with us,” Vanora reassures him. “Don't worry. She knows where we are.” She does? Tristan blearily tries to piece that together, but his alcohol-addled brain agrees with it. It's only in the quiet of the room that all he's drank really starts to hit him. He sinks down onto the plush couch, slumping. Vanora smiles at him and then heads over to the champagne bottle. She sticks it between her knees and pops the cork off, laughing again when it fizzes over her knees. She pours a glass and brings it over to him.

“Mr. Aldjoy,” she says with a flourish. 

“Why thank you,” Tristan answers with a wry grin. He accepts the champagne and begins to sip at it, watching as she goes back for a second glass. She pours it but doesn't drink. Instead, she returns back to the couch and sits down beside him. He can feel the warmth of her arm against him.

“You sponsored me,” she says; he's not sure if it's a statement or a question, the way she's phrased it. The sparkling smile is gone though, and Tristan doesn't know exactly what to say – even if he's supposed to say anything. Suddenly, he feels a little embarrassed and he doesn't know why. He downs more of the champagne until his flute is empty.

“Yeah,” he ends up saying, an unfinished thought there somewhere. 

“So modest,” Vanora teases, but it's softer than her earlier quips. She plucks the empty flute from his hands. (He has nothing else to concentrate on besides her now. He tries not to squirm.) She looks down at him and starts to gently run her fingers through his hair. (He suspects this is supposed to be relaxing, but some part of his mind that, mercifully, has decided to remain on, is wondering where Rosie is.)

“You might have saved my life,” Vanora says, serious. “That doesn't mean anything to you?”

This feels suspiciously like a trap. He doesn't know what the answer is here. (His stomach flip flops as he's reminded of Wren cornering him on the nearly empty street.) His eyes dart back toward the curtain.

“Come here,” Vanora says, even softer. She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. Her hand – the one not in his hair – drags a neat line down his front before cupping in between his legs. Tristan makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He tries to sit up straight even as she starts to try and undo his pants. He hastily grabs her wrist, making her stop.

“What are you doing?” Tristan breathes. There's still just an inch of space in between their lips, and he feels fuzzy. It's hard to concentrate. But she looks just as confused as he does. 

“I thought,” she says (and suddenly all of that grace and confidence is gone). “I thought we'd get started before Rosie came back.”

“We're not starting anything,” Tristan clarifies. He sits up a bit straighter, puts a bit more space in between them. He tries to go back over his actions throughout the night, tries to think of if there had been any moment when he'd given _this_ kind of signal. 

“I thought,” she tries to say. (He's reminded of the fact that she's only 16.)

“What did you think?” Tristan asks, perhaps a bit too harshly; he's keyed up now, aware of how isolated they are, aware of every place his body is touching the couch. His skin feels too alive, but his brain feels too sodden with alcohol. He wants Rosie to come and get him out of this mess, but he's afraid of what will happen if she walks back here. (Did she expect this? His brain jerks messily away at just that thought. No. No, Rosie wouldn't have expected this.) 

“I was told this is what victors do,” Vanora answers a little more flatly. (He sees a bit more of a glimpse of the girl who had entered the Hunger Games, the one who hadn't so neatly played along in the interviews, who had, every now and then, seemed to challenge her interviewer.)

He pushes himself off the couch and starts to pace in the small amount of space, running his fingers through his hair (trying to get rid of the sensation of hers there). He glances back at her. She is stiff-backed, pushed against the couch as if she's torn between trying to make herself as small as possible and readying herself for a fight. (She is scared of him, he realizes dully. Whatever he's done is not according to the plan, and she's afraid she's going to be punished.)

“Someone told you that you were expected to sleep with us?” Tristan asks, trying out the words. (They are more horrifying said aloud. He wants to call them back. This is not safe.)

Vanora senses this instantly. She doesn't know the answer to this question. (She does; she doesn't know if she's allowed to say it.) She looks uncertainly up at him, as if willing him to let her go without an answer, without the punishment that would surely come along with it. Yes, _yes_ , the answer is yes, but she can't say it. That much is clear. This is not her design. This is bigger than her. 

He feels weak at the knees. (He keeps trying to run away from these victor conspiracies and, somehow, they keep seeking him out. Unfortunately, that's when Ashleen's words come back to him, the reminder that Finnick Odair had been around the house all the time, that they just couldn't understand when he decided to partake in the rebellion when they had all been such good _friends_ until then. He feels sick. He sits right down on the floor, doesn't care what the hell Vanora thinks of him.

And what must she think of him? This spoiled little rich boy who had the money to use on a mere _whim_ whether or not he was going to save her life. Her words are echoed back at him, not a compliment now, but a torment. He shuts his eyes.)

“Are you okay?” she asks somewhere above him.

“Do you know Finnick Odair?” he asks, the words mumbled. She doesn't answer, so he chances a glance at her. Her look is still suspicious. (Oh, God. Should he read into this the same was he read into the last question? Is that a yes? Does she know what happened to Finnick? They're from the same district after all.)

“Please,” Tristan says. (He realizes he should get up off the floor, but he doesn't. He must look pathetic.) “I swear this isn't a trick. Do you know him?” 

She looks at him again, seems to study him harder. (Is she seeing into the truth of it, matching up their resemblances? Does she know who he is?) She still appears guarded, at war with herself, trying to decipher which will leave her more vulnerable: refusing him or granting his request.

“Yes,” she says finally, warily. His throat swells. (He was stupid to think he could leave this behind, because now he has the truth again. Finnick Odair is still alive, somewhere.)

“Where?” Tristan asks. “Where is he?” He waits for another crushing answer, something as damning as the mental institute that Johanna Mason has been thrown away into. 

“District Four,” Vanora says, shaking her head a little. “He's just in District Four.” Is that it? Is the answer that simple? Did he just go home after the war? Maybe they've misconstrued this situation somehow. Why did Peeta think he was dead?

Tristan, unexpectedly, feels tired. He's tired of living between these two worlds, balanced between what he could have been and what he's supposed to be. He's tearing slowly at the seams. (This is not the place to do this, he knows. She is a victor. She has been taught to feed on the weaknesses of others.) 

He pushes himself back to his feet, rights himself. He heads over to the table and pours two fresh glasses of champagne. Vanora is watching him; he feels the weight of her wary gaze on his back. He presents her with one of the flutes. She takes it slowly. He clinks his against hers.

“You can tell them you did whatever you want to,” Tristan says. “That you pleased us.” (He makes sure to frame it this way: He is doing _her_ a favor, not the other way around.) 

She looks up at him but drinks to that.

…

He shows up at Wren's house a little after dawn. She looks at him, nonplussed, clad in only a loose pair of pajama bottoms and an oversized flannel shirt. He's struck by the fact that it's the first time he's seen her without makeup – even her, in this place, paints on a false face every morning before she steps out. Behind her, the city yawns and stretches, silent, but waiting – waiting for the churning streets to come alive, for people to turn out in mass. He can't take one more day of being a part of this city. He is hungover, his eyes gritty, his stomach upset. 

Two worlds have tried to claim him, and he is a son of nothing now.

Wren brings him inside; she, too, is a child of nothing, so they're not alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Tristan expects Wren to hold it against him, but she never brings up his moment of doubt or the reason why he decided to come back. In turn, he doesn't question the plan that she lays out over the next 24 hours in a methodical and even way. She has to have her doubts already. He doesn't need to compile them. They'll both need false faces and an overabundance of charisma to get through this. 

They board the train in late afternoon. It's a hard first step, a test of their disguises. (They're both in military uniforms, false identification badges on their chest. “We're not anybody,” Wren says. “We have a rank that will give us clearance, names that don't go anywhere. If anyone digs above the surface, we're done.” If anyone recognizes them, they're done. Their caps are kept low to their face – but not so low as to coax someone to peek. 

“Keep your gloves on,” Wren reminds him. They can't leave fingerprints anywhere. They just need to do this flawlessly, to give no reason for people to look twice at them, to try and call up their records, to look twice at the footage of them getting on the train, arriving at the asylum. This could fall apart so easily, but neither of them ask _What then_? The answers are too obscure, too scary.)

No one is leaving the city at this hour of the day though. People are coming in from the outskirts, from days spent where the air is a little cleaner, from the places where the borders between the districts get a little thin. The driver has had a long day and doesn't look at them twice when their badges give them clearance. They sit together, straight-backed, but not too tense. Tristan resists the urge to grab her hand. His pulse pounds messily in his throat the entire time. He struggles not to look for the cameras he has to know are there.

It's too late to turn back. (How many times has he thought this? When did it become true? Was he doomed the minute Wren pulled him aside on the street? The moment she learned of the truth? The moment they were born and subsequently handed off to someone else?)

They arrive at the asylum, a grey slab of concrete and stone that's been spit into the middle of a nothing piece of land. This is the furthest away from the city that Tristan has ever been. The building is surrounded by a tangle of barbed wire that they pass through before disembarking. They go through the same procedure as they step off the train: names, ranks, ID cards checked. They sign a piece of paper. (“Don't hesitate,” Wren had said. “Don't try and make it look too neat.”)

“We're here to see Patient 8937289374,” Wren rattles off. (Tristan lets her do the talking, watches her with something close to admiration. She fits in well here. He wonders if, in another life, she could have successfully joined the military. What world would they be in now if she had just inherited her father's general position?)

They're led to an empty room near the front of the building. (There are no cameras here, which still throws Tristan off even though it had been an integral part of this plan. Officially, this place doesn't exist, but the government doesn't want any evidence to the contrary. No digital evidence of what happens to the patients here exists. Denial is made even easier. This works for and against them; their evidence never exists as well, but if they disappear, there is no trail as to where they've been.)

Tristan breathes steadily, doesn't let himself fidget as they wait for Johanna to be brought to them. He and Wren don't talk, but he can feel nervousness emanating off her in waves, although she also sits still, making sure not to fidget. Time seems to drag.

And then, suddenly, there's a pair of orderlies at the door with a woman in between them. She's gaunt, rail-thin, nothing of the strong woman who had conned the nation _twice_ to win the Hunger Games. Dark circles bloom underneath her eyes and her head is shaved, hair gone. (They've come too late. That's the first thing Tristan sees when he looks at her. Surely, by now, they've bled the spirit out of this woman. What can she possibly know? She's been remolded from what she was, turned into a creature of just flesh, blood, and pain. He wants to reach for Wren's hand, to apologize to her, because she has to be losing something in this moment.)

The orderlies place Johanna in the chair in front of them. They leave then, locking the door behind them. It won't be opened again until Wren or Tristan asks for it to be.

Wren is supposed to ask the first question, but she seems to have lost her nerve. The seconds drag on and on. Until, abruptly, Johanna raises her head by inches, manages to look them in the eye. _Oh_. There's a maddening glint there, a flame that has yet to be extinguished.

“ _You_ ,” Johanna gets out, hoarsely, the sound barely human. She's staring at Wren, her fingers arched on top of the table, as if she can hold onto it.

“Yes,” Wren answers without hesitation. Her voice shakes though. She clears her throat. 

It's always unsettling for Tristan to see her unmanned. He considers her the stronger out of the two of them. She's the one who always knows where to look, how to get what they need. But this is just as emotional for her as it is for him. He forgets that sometimes, in the flurry of plans and practice. 

Wren inches a hand slowly across the table, treating Johanna like an animal who might spook at any moment. Johanna watches quietly but then stretches her hand out the last few inches, palm up, and lets Wren take her hand. 

“Why are you here?” Johanna asks. The question is almost accusatory, as if the reason they're here might be to hurt her. (That thought crests strangely over Tristan's brain. Maybe, to Johanna, they are still weapons. Does she think Snow has sent them to torment her further?)

“We were trying to find you,” Wren says. She sounds caught off guard as well, as if she doesn't exactly know the answer to the question. 

“Why?” Johanna asks again, relentless. 

Wren makes a funny noise in the back of her throat. She's quiet and then just manages, “Because you're my mom.” Her voice so little, so childish. Vulnerable. Johanna takes the words like a physical blow as well, flinching as though she's been hit. It takes her a moment to recover and then she grins, too many teeth bared. She looks nearly feral. 

“That old bastard must hate you,” Johanna says.

“Not yet,” Wren answers. 

Something about that makes Tristan realize _precisely_ what they're doing. They're committing treason. Because of course it's not going to just end with them finding their parents. He sees it so clearly now. There's not going to be any returning to a land of weddings and wealth. They've chosen their side. By finding Johanna, they've chosen the side of the rebels.

(Strange, isn't it? Because up until so recently, he'd been about to become a part of the Snow dynasty. 

His heart aches at the thought of it, because he still loves Rosalind so much. He _wants_ to say that all he wants is to go home and marry her, but that's not his truth anymore. He doesn't know what she would think of this. Maybe she couldn't even forgive him for his role in this. His actions will be the end of him. But even if they are, he will protect her at all costs. She hasn't done anything wrong. 

He wonders over their potential though. This wavering line they're walking. They both are products of this world of opulence and abuse. If he hadn't known about the victors, would he have slept with Vanora? Would _they_ have slept with Vanora? Would she have been first in the line of many victors they would have sponsored and owned? How innocent are they of these actions? He's already sponsored one victor. _His_ money and _his_ decisions paid for the death of children – deaths that he had readily celebrated.

Are they tarnished simply because of where they were born and raised? Can he atone for what he's done so far? And if so, where does that quest for atonement end and when does it become the dangerous path of revenge?)

He's confused, depressed, overwhelmed. He and Wren have never discussed these things at great length. And honestly, he's giving them a lot of credit. They're two Capitol kids with a lot of daring, but not a lot of resources. Their parents, after all, had a great force behind them – money, technology, and manpower – and they had all failed. Maybe they're doing nothing more than writing themselves a death sentence. 

“You're Tristan.” 

It's only Johanna's attention, suddenly riveting on him that pulls him back into the present.

“Yes,” he answers.

“You look like Finnick,” she tells him, something twitching in her face. “But you have Annie's eyes.”

“Do you know where they are?” he asks, unable to hide the desperation in his voice. Vanora told him that Finnick is in District Four, but confirmation would be good. Besides, District Four is huge. And he's never heard where his mother is – if she's even alive. 

Johanna grows somber, her mouth a flat line of contempt.

“They cut you out of her,” Johanna says. “They killed her to get you. I don't think they thought they could make a lot of money off her kids. Because the Capitol was so intent on painting her as the crazy girl.” Johanna spits on the floor. “If I could have won like she did – not killing anyone – god, I would have done it. They _hated_ her so much. They had to discredit her however they could. She was lucky though. She was the only one they let die.”

After everyone who has been so selective and careful in what they've told Wren and Tristan, it's strange to hear the truth so bluntly. And it hurts him so much. His mother is dead – his mother died _because_ of him. He shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, but he still feels dizzy.

“Last I knew, Finnick was still alive, but that was years ago,” Johanna continues. “If he got the chance, he's dead now. He couldn't live without Annie.” Johanna reaches in and grabs at Wren's wrist, holding her in place. “You need to forgot about us, even if we are still _alive_. We're all gone now. Burned out. If you can do something to destroy the Capitol, that's the best thing you can do. The only thing you can do for us.”

“Do you know how many of us there are?” Wren asks in return, just as heated. 

“No,” Johanna answers, shaking her head. (She grins again, that show of her teeth.) “You were the only one for me. I made sure of that at least.” 

Those words thud, heavy, in Tristan's stomach. He can't ask for more detail on how Johanna achieved that. 

“You should go now,” Joanna says, drawing away from them. “Get out of here. I don't want to see you again.” She says the words in a biting voice, spitting them out, but they still miss the mark of actually hurting. Even Tristan can see that Johanna, in her own way, is trying to protect them. 

He knows Wren wants more. They've worked so hard, traveled all this way, and she wants to share something _more_ with her mother, especially if this is going to be the only time they ever talk. He watches her struggle, years of words floating on the tip of her tongue, not managing to manifest.

“Go!” Johanna snaps. She waves a hand at them. “ _Go_!”

“Come on,” Tristan says gently. He presses a hand against Wren's, but doesn't leave it there. He knows she doesn't want him at this moment. He gets up, bangs on the door, signaling for the guards to come back. Wren looks up at him, her eyes flashing with something akin to pain.

“Wait,” she tries to say. “ _Wait_.”

But there's no waiting. The guards come back. They gather Johanna in between them as if she's a loose pile of sticks. She sags in their hold, does nothing to fight them. They drag her back down the hallway, and then she's gone. 

Wren still sits, shell-shocked at the table, staring at where Johanna had just been sitting. Tristan's worried that he's going to have to prompt her to get up. Despite the depth of her turmoil, she recovers quickly. She stands, straightens her uniform, and clears her throat.

They leave the same way they came, marched back out the exit, toward where the train is still waiting for them. Because of where they're coming from, they're the only ones on the train. 

They sit together, quiet, for about half the ride. Tristan doesn't know what to say to her. He wishes he did. But he suspects that there's nothing words could cure in this moment. What she needs to hear is beyond what the human tongue is capable of. So, he leaves her to her thoughts until they're about halfway home.

“I want to go to District Four,” he says softly, a quiet confession. (He keeps his head down so that his mouth won't be readable by the camera – although if anyone's paying that close attention to him, they're in trouble already.)

“I don't know how to get us there,” Wren answers automatically, almost woodenly. 

“We're on a train,” Tristan reminds her. He feels the pressing need to do this now. He feels if he goes back to the Capitol, there will be no escaping it again. They'll be swallowed there. They'll never get out.

“It doesn't head to Four,” Wren says. She's too mired in her own depression to think in the way he needs her to think. He's usually the one presenting opposition while she considers things from a fresh perspective, dreams up their solutions.

“But it could,” he insists. “It has the capability of going to any of the districts. We're dressed as guards. We could give the order.”

“And when they get back to the Capitol?” Wren answers, nearly in a snarl. “And ask why the train was off schedule? When they start to look for the guard who gave the order?”

“So, how do we change the order then?” Tristan bites off in a challenge. Wren opens her mouth to argue with him further, but then pauses. _There_. There, he sees the light that he's become well-acquainted with. Something is occurring to her. She reaches down and pulls up the bag that's she brought with them, which contains a computer. 

“I could do it digitally, I think,” Wren says. “Make the order seem as if it came from nowhere if they try to trace it.” She stares at him, her face washed in the electronic light. “Are we going?”

“Yes,” Tristan answers. “Do it.” Maybe they should take another moment to pause. They spent weeks planning out this trip, after all. There have to be things they haven't considered for going to District Four – how long will it take, just to start with. When will their families start looking for them? But he's high on their success, if it can be called that. They've found Johanna Mason, and Tristan intends to find Finnick Odair now.

“Why do you think,” Wren says slowly as she types, “That none of them have mentioned Katniss?” She says the words more hushed, as if she's afraid of being overheard, even though they're as safe as they get on the train.

“She could be dead,” Tristan suggests.

“No,” Wren says, shaking her head. “No. One of them would know if she was dead. Peeta would know. I think … whatever he did to her must have been terrible. Worse than death. She was his biggest adversary after all.” 

Finnick strains his mind to think, considers the punishments they already know: Johanna in the asylum, Peeta in the Capitol. Finnick supposedly in District Four – was his punishment just knowing that Annie was dead? Johanna had said that he would have tried to kill himself if he could make it. That seems like a bad enough punishment to him. They've lost their freedom, been separated from their loved ones. There are so many ways to achieve that though, and everything Tristan thinks of lacks the biting edge that Snow seems to have concocted for his victors. 

“Maybe he made her a gamemaker,” Tristan says out loud, musing. 

“Could he force her to do that?” Wren asks, obviously considering it even as she speaks. “Couldn't she just refuse?”

“Not if he threatened to kill some of us,” Tristan points out. 

“Maybe she just has to watch videos of us,” Wren answers. “Wherever she is. Knowing that we're in the Capitol.” She shivers a little, unable to help herself. “Or maybe reruns of the games? That'd be enough to make anyone crazy.” 

Neither of them can think of anything worse than what they've dreamt up, so they just sit, for the rest of the ride, quiet and uncomfortable. They watch through the windows as the landscape changes, sliding away from the cosmopolitan cityscape they've both grown up through. They slide through at least one other district, but Tristan can't remember quite what sits between the Capitol and Four. The districts had always been almost imaginary before. Something he was vaguely aware of but had no real impact on him except for when the Hunger Games rolled around. He feels like a shadow of his former self now. 

They arrive in Four without any consequence, although Tristan grows more worried the further they get from the Capitol. All the flaws in this plan become more obvious, but he also becomes more insistent that this was the right course of action anyway.

The air is balmy when they get off the train. The ocean pounds in the distance. Tristan can't help but stare for a few moments, caught up in the sight in front of him – blue sky meeting blue water, a dizzying sort of oblivion.

“We only have two hours,” Wren says. She's looking off in the distance, toward the city. “If we're not back on the train by then, we're going to be stuck here for awhile. I think we should start looking first in Victors' Village. If he's not there, we'll have to head into town and actually ask people if they know where he is. Four's huge though. If he's not living in this area anymore, we're going to have zero chance of finding him.”

“Is this where he grew up?” Tristan asks curiously as they start hiking over sand dunes. 

“I think so,” Wren answers. “From what I could tell in his early interviews. He was close with Mags Cohen – and most of the Career schools are located near victors, so even if they aren't born here, this is where District Four Careers end up for their training.” She pauses. “The Odairs are – or were – a pretty big family in District Four though. War wasn't too kind to them.” 

He doesn't press her any further on that, because he suspects he doesn't want to know the details of what happened to the Odair family. They crest over another dune – and then there it is. Victors' Village. The neat row of houses is nothing compared to what Wren and Tristan have grown up in, but the view of the ocean from them is breathtaking. 

“Are we just going door to door?” Tristan asks. “Knocking?” 

“I'll do that,” Wren says, looking at him pointedly. 

“Right,” Tristan says, pulling his hat down a little lower. How strange is to think that there's a man around here somewhere who he looks almost exactly like? That he might have other family around here still? Would they really know him? Just by sight alone?

He doesn't have much time to ponder, because Wren sidles up to the first door. She takes a deep breath and raises a hand to knock. They both tense, waiting to see who will answer. But no one answers. Wren eyes him and then raises her hand and knocks again after a moment. When still no one comes to the door, she reaches down and grabs the handle. To both their surprise, the door swings open without resistance.

“Don't,” Tristan warns. 

“Hello!” Wren calls inside. Her voice echoes inside the hallway, but no one comes running at the sound of her voice. She shrugs at him and then walks inside. Tristan wants to grab her – he doesn't see how this is going to help, and he can feel their precious two hours ticking away. But he follows after her anyway, because they can't be separated. The house is gloomy, low lit, and fairly dusty. He gets the feeling that nobody's been in this particular house for a long time, but it's still full of things – a sweater hangs by the doorway, a handful of shells on a table. Nothing tells him whose house they're in, though. They wander from room to room. Tristan still half expects someone to spring on them, and he's on pins and needles the entire time. 

They get through nearly the whole house, Wren peeking into closets and sifting through the owner's possessions, but if she generates a theory as to whose house they're in, she doesn't share. But then – they hear the front door creak open. They're on the second floor, and they both freeze. Tristan's afraid to even breathe.

“I know you're in here,” she calls down from the front entrance. “And I know you're not Peacekeepers.”

Tristan recognizes that voice. It takes him another moment to place it.

“Vanora,” he mouths at Wren. She casts him a questioning look: Can they trust her? He doesn't know. She's a victor. She has reason to hate them – him in particular. But maybe she'll help him. He'd shown her something akin to kindness in the Capitol. Does she actually know Finnick? Had she seen their resemblance? She'd be the one who'd said he was here. 

It's their best option, even if it's still risky. It's either that or wait her out and go searching for strangers to help them. Tristan edges closer to the banister.

“We're not here to cause trouble,” he answers, hands up, leaning forward so that she can see him. She edges forward on the ground floor, looks up. He sees her eyes widen. 

Some part of him is surprised at the sight of her. She looks so … normal. Not like a victor at all. She's wearing shorts with fraying cuffs, a baggy sweater, and no shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. It's hard to see the similarities between her and the girl who had danced with him in the club not so long ago.

“You,” she says, surprised. Her expression turns suspicious. “What are you doing here?” 

“We're coming down, okay?” Tristan says. He edges down the steps slowly, keeping his hands where she can see them. Vanora tenses, but she doesn't verbally protest, so he keeps walking.

“We're looking for someone,” Tristan says. “You know who?” He figures that she does, especially after their discussion in the Capitol.

“I know who,” Vanora says, keeping her guard up. 

“Do you know why?” Tristan presses. Wren keeps behind him, for once letting him take care of things. 

“I've heard rumors,” Vanora says. She eyes him with something close to disdain – but maybe there's pity there too. He hopes it's pity, because the disdain sure as hell isn't going to help him.

“Will you take me to him?” Tristan asks. 

Vanora pauses. She looks uncertain. Her eyes bounce back to Wren, measures her as well.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Alright.”

Tristan's heart skips a beat. If she's not lying to him, if she's _telling the truth_ , they're about to find Finnick. 

“We have to get you changed first,” Vanora says. “You're going to attract too much attention in those uniforms.” 

“Alright,” Tristan agrees again. They head back outside, Vanora at the lead. She closes the door gently behind them once again.

“Whose house was that?” Wren asks.

“Mags',” Vanora answers impassively. They have to head only next door to reach Vanora's home. It's more updated than the one they were just in, sparkling clean and full of sunlight. She doesn't take them upstairs, but to what looks like it might be a guest bedroom. There are clothes in the closet and she hands them over to Tristan and Wren, who shimmy out of their Peacekeeper uniforms and then tug on the shorts and T-shirts they've been handed. 

When they look like two normal teenagers, they slip back out of the house. Vanora doesn't offer them any additional directions, but marches down toward the town. The houses are even smaller here than they were in Victors' Village. They seemed clustered around a market area – that Vanora skirts around, so Tristan and Wren don't get to see what it's like. She keeps walking down side streets, obviously trying to keep them in the most deserted areas. They don't pass many people. They keep near the coast though, before arriving at a faded yellow house. There's a woman standing in the yard, a baby balanced on one hip, putting up sheets on a clothesline. (Is there something familiar about her face? Tristan tries to search without looking too obvious. He doesn't know.)

“Is he in?” Vanora asks the woman. 

“Who're they?” the woman says, nodding back toward Tristan and Wren.

“They're friends,” she answers – more than Tristan thinks they deserve. 

“Are they safe?” the woman persists. 

“Is he in?” Vanora asks in turn, just as stubborn. 

“Yes,” the woman says finally. She looks back toward them once more, her mouth going thin. But then she turns away from them, dismissing them. 

Vanora walks up the path and up the steps. The door to the house is already open, and Vanora lets them all inside. There are a few children's toys scattered across the floor and a stack of clean, already dry laundry on top of the kitchen table. 

“Stay here,” Vanora says, motioning for them to halt. They do, although it knocks Tristan's nerves up another notch. Have they just walked into a trap? Or is Finnick Odair somewhere in this house? There's nothing to be done about it now. They're here. For whatever happens next, this is the only place they were going to end up. 

They hear Vanora run up the stairs, but if she's talking to anybody up there, they can't hear her. Tristan wants to ask Wren what she thinks of what's happening, but he also doesn't dare speak. But then – there's the sound of returning footsteps. Vanora appears first in the doorway, looking passively indifferent again. 

And behind her is – 

Finnick. 

Tristan stares. He stares without even trying not to. Because he does look so much like this man that it is ridiculous. He's older, there's no denying that. Gone are the charming good looks of the 24-year-old who had participated in the rebellion. But not by much. His face has gone hard with time, something steely around his eyes that was never there before. Lines are grooved around his mouth and eyes. But his physique is still largely the same, broad, with well-toned muscle. 

“Finnick, this is Tristan,” Vanora says, as if this is any normal sort of introduction. “Tristan, Finnick.” She looks toward Wren, but obviously doesn't know who she is and makes a face that seems to apologize for that.

“Wren,” Wren answers neatly, but Tristan knows she has to be just as overwhelmed as he is. _This is their father._

He can't read Finnick's expression though – nervous? Maybe hesitant. There's not that burst of _knowing_ that came with Johanna. He looks at Vanora and then moves his hands. His fingers flash quickly, and Tristan is baffled. He has no idea what's going on, but Vanora watches carefully and then looks back over at them.

“He wants to know why you're here,” she says – as if the thing with the hands meant something to her.

Why this continued question? Tristan knows that it took him a long time to get on board with Wren, but he still feels like the answer to this question has to be implicit. _They're their parents_. With the truth in hand, what else could they do but seek them out? But doing that is such a sheer act of rebellion that everyone keeps asking them what the next step is. 

Selfishly, Tristan also wants to be wanted by Finnick. He wants their connection to be instant and full of meaning. (Isn't he the one who was wanted by his parents after all? He wasn't concocted by Snow. His parents loved each other. Hadn't they planned him? Isn't he the last thing Finnick has left of Annie?)

But he doesn't know how to put all of this into words, not when, really, Finnick is just a stranger to him.

It's up to Wren once again, who must have emotions of her own about what's happening.

“We've been learning the truth,” Wren says, focused as ever. “We saw Johanna.”

Finnick looks surprised at that. It breaks through the defenses he'd carefully concocted when he'd entered this room. Vanora might have been able to warn him that they were here, but he hasn't been able to prepare himself for everything they know. They're breaking down the wall he'd intended to remain between them.

Finnick turns toward Vanora and starts to move his hands again. Tristan frowns.

“What--?” he starts to ask, because he doesn't understand. Before he can get even most of the question out, Wren's hand lashes out. She wraps her fingers around his wrist and squeezes hard. He looks at her, wearing his confusion openly. She shakes her head, lips gone thin. She doesn't say anything either, but she presses at him anyway. _What happens to traitors of the Capitol_?

His brain finally clicks.

_Oh_.

Finnick is an Avox. His mind reels. He's known Avoxes. Of course, he has. His parents had Avox servants around the house when he was growing up, but he's never seriously considered them. They'd been like a piece of furniture in the house, not human beings. It's horrifying. But it's been a statement of fact in his life: _People who betray the Capitol have their tongues cut out_. It's something he's always known, so he's never questioned it. Yet another part of his life has had light shed on it, and he can't fight how horrifying the truth really is. 

They'd assumed that many of the victors had been relegated to the shadows, like Johanna. But it seems as if so many of the punishments are also public. Peeta, put on display in the Capitol, made to pretend to be grateful for the scraps that he has been left with. Finnick, returned to District Four for all to see, but coming back shredded. He wonders what's worse – for everyone to have forgotten about you, or for everyone to only see you as a weapon of the Capitol's retaliation? To have to go through the motions of a normal life when nothing is normal anymore?

Vanora and Finnick seem unaware of what has passed between the two of them though. 

“I don't know that one,” Vanora is saying to Finnick, frowning. He pauses, considers, and then tries a different tactic.

“He wants to know where you saw Johanna,” Vanora translates. “And if you've seen any of the others?”

“She's in an asylum near the Capitol,” Wren answers. “Better than I thought she would be. And we've seen Peeta, of course.”

Vanora looks over at Finnick. He moves his hand, but this Vanora doesn't translate. Instead, she answers him out loud, but in a language that Tristan has never heard before. They go back and forth like this while Tristan and Wren are forced just to stand there, no idea what either of them are saying. (He can tell just by looking at Wren that she actually doesn't know either.)

One word they can tell from Vanora, the sharp _no_ that she keeps saying, with more and more force. Finnick's movements become more agitated, but finally they come to a conclusion.

“He says to come in,” Vanora says, clearly not agreeing with that decision. Finnick turns toward the interior of the house. Tristan chances a glance at Wren. They both follow Finnick with Vanora bringing up the rear. 

The inside of the house is well-worn but tidy. Finnick sits down in an armchair and Wren and Tristan take the couch adjacent to it. They sink down in tandem. Tristan prickles with awareness, because this all feels so weird. 

Vanora remains standing, arms crossed in front of her.

“Is this where you live?” Wren asks Finnick. 

“Sometimes,” Vanora answers for him. “The houses up in Victors' Village are bugged. This is my sister's house, and Snow hasn't had it bugged yet. How did you find out?” 

Wren looks between Vanora and Finnick as Vanora translates for him, but when she asks questions, she directs them at Finnick still.

“When my,” and here she falters, realizing what she was about to say and who she's talking to. Finnick seems to understand all the same. He smiles a little. 

“After he died, there were some things came up. I had access to some of his papers and I started putting it together. Tristan's the only one I've told and he's been helping me since. He talked to Peeta, and we figured out how to get over to Johanna. We were with her earlier today.”

“Can you tell us about Annie?” Tristan asks, leaning forward. This question feels brazen, especially because Johanna had been so sure that Annie was dead. But he wants to know. 

Finnick looks directly at him, and his expression is grave. The laughter is gone from his face, and something sad lingers in his eyes. (She is dead, Tristan knows then. Johanna was right.) Finnick's hands are slower as he answers. Tristan doesn't look away from him, even as Vanora answers.

“I was part of the squad that came into the Capitol at the end of the war. They captured us first. I don't know what happened, but Thirteen surrendered a few weeks after that. Annie was brought from Thirteen to the Capitol. We never saw each other while were there. But Snow made sure I knew she was pregnant. He told me she died while having the baby, but,” Vanora's voice breaks here. “I know even if he didn't have her killed, he didn't do anything to save her. Snow hated her, because he couldn't control her in the way he controls the other victors. After that, he had my tongue cut out, because I told Capitol secrets during the war. He sent me back here. At the same time, Johanna was pregnant.” Finnick looks toward Wren – just a few seconds before Vanora says the actual words.

“I know Katniss had a daughter of mine, too, a few years later. Snow always made sure we knew.” 

Wren leans forward, obviously intending to ask another question, but Finnick doesn't pause to let her.

“The one thing Snow never realized was that making an Avox out of me was the worst thing he could have done. The Avoxes know more secrets than anyone else in the Capitol. The nurse in the Aldjoy house used to send me messages.”

Awareness sparks up Tristan's spine. He remembers the woman – who had been a staple in his life until he was 10. She had been the one who had ushered him from room to room, making sure that he ate, putting him to bed, giving him baths when he was a toddler, taking him to the park. All these small things that his parents could pay for someone else to do, taking care of him while they tended their business in the Capitol. All this time, a woman who was a smear of a memory in his mind, she had been passing messages back to Finnick. 

“Snow kept Katniss in the Capitol until after Gemma Mellark was born. I think he was afraid to let her go for a long time, that she would somehow manage to threaten him if he did. But she's not there anymore. I think he thought that he had finally won when Peeta paid for Gemma. He sent Katniss away. I'm not sure where, but I think he sent her back to Twelve.”

“There is no District 12,” Tristan says impulsively.

All three of them just stare at him. (Of course. District 12 was destroyed during the war, but the physical place would still exist. Ruins. Is it possible that Snow sent Katniss Everdeen there by herself? To walk the graveyard of the place that she had once called home? It seems like less control than he's exerted over Johanna, Peeta, and Finnick, who are under constant observation. But then, what could she do? Being that isolated? Her last act of rebellion, Tristan thinks frankly, would be to kill herself. But that's hardly a victor for the rebels.)

Yet, if that's true, it seems virtually impossible for them to get to District 12. If the train does still even run there, there's no way that could there discreetly. It's one thing to make it go to Four; the trains run between the districts to pick up goods. But not Twelve, which is supposed to be a wasteland. 

This hits at the same time he realizes that this might be the first and only time in his life that he might actually see Finnick. He knows they could take the risk to pass messages back and forth with the Avoxes, but every trip to Four presents a risk. If they want something more, they're going to have to actually do what Johanna said and dismantle the power structure in the Capitol – an idea that still seems absurd, especially when he remembers that it's Eleanor in charge. Eleanor, who is practically an older sister to him.

“What are you going to do now?”

Tristan glances over at Wren. They've done the first part of what they set out to do. Find the truth. Find their parents. And now, again, there're two options: Fight. Or pretend that everything is fine. Go home. Remember that Finnick Odair is here in Four, Johanna Mason is being tortured in an asylum, and that Katniss Everdeen is still out there, somewhere. Each option feels impossible.

“I don't know,” Wren admits. It's strange to hear those words coming from her, because she almost always knows, has an opinion on everything. It is a comfort to know that she's just as overwhelmed and scared as he is.

“I'm proud of both of you,” comes the answer. “You've come a long way. Defied what Snow wanted you to be. The fighting isn't easy though. No one would blame you for going home and trying to live the best you can.” 

Is that really an option? Tristan doesn't want to think it's the one Finnick's advocating for, but the answer is so much calmer than Johanna's impassioned plea for them to destroy the Capitol. 

“Thank you,” Wren answers, her voice thick. 

“You should go. You need to be back on the train.” 

Wren nods. They both get to their feet, but before they head out of the room, Wren moves past Tristan and wraps her arms around Finnick. He seems a little surprised at the sudden contact, but wraps his arms back around her in return. They stay like that for a few moments, and when they break apart, Tristan can't help but stepping forward as well. Finnick hugs him too, tight.

(Who would he be if this was the man who had raised him? If he had grown up in District Four with Finnick and Annie? It's hard to let the daydream flower into much. He doesn't know much about Four. And in the end, that also strips him of Wren. It denies her her existence. 

And he loses Rosie. 

For all that's happened, for all that he's learned and seen, he still loves her. Is that okay? Is he allowed to do that? Is he allowed to say that she's been a victim of the Capitol as much as anyone else? But victim probably isn't a fair word. They're both _products_ of the Capitol, those who are just as likely to become abusers as their parents if they don't do something to break the cycle.) 

Finnick claps him on the back and then the moment is over. Finnick lets him go. Vanora is the one who takes them back out into the kitchen while Finnick remains behind in the living room. Tristan can't help but glance once over his shoulder at the man. 

Then, they round the corner and Tristan can't see him any longer. 

They trek in reverse, back to Vanora's house, where they pull the Peacekeeper uniforms numbly back on their bodies. He and Vanora stand just outside once he's dressed, waiting for Wren.

“Thank you,” Tristan manages to say. “For helping us find him. To talk with us.”

Vanora nods. 

“Do you know him well?” Tristan asks, unable to help himself.

“He doesn't work with Careers anymore,” Vanora answers. “But after I was sold in the Capitol, I sought him out, because, well. I'd heard that's what had happened to him. I told him about you. That you were one of my prime sponsors. And I think that really upset him. But then I told him about what happened in the nightclub later. And I think he was proud of you for that.”

Tristan feels stupid, and that's the truth. How little of a person does he to have to be just for someone to be proud of him because he didn't rape this girl when he had the chance?

“People in power – people who have no checks on that power and have been told that time and time again – abuse that power when they have the chance,” Vanora says quietly. “You're a good person, because everyone has told you it's okay to do the wrong thing and you find the right thing anyway.”

“What would you do?” Tristan asks. “If you were me?”

“The easy thing would be to go home and do the best you can in your day-to-day life to not hurt anyone else,” Vanora answers neutrally. 

“But?” Tristan prompts.

“Your world will always hurt other people,” Vanora answers – and there's the kick of fire that had burned bright during the Hunger Games, helped her to survive. “As long as the Hunger Games exist, as long as the Capitol victimizes the districts, as long as it's okay for the Capitol to rape victors and steal their children. The system itself is flawed. If I was you, if I had the chance, I would tell everyone what I knew. I would get the Snows out of power. I would get rid of the gamemakers, the stylists – the people who _profit_ of the deaths of children. I would give the districts a chance to _actually live_.”

She catches herself at the end as if she remembers just who she's talking to, looks a little embarrassed. But there is the truth. He is a son of this system – of the Capitol and the victors. He is a bridge. He has seen both sides of this world, which is something almost no one else can say. He has the power to make change and the compassion to want to do it. The answer becomes clear to him as he stands out there on the sand of District Four, outside where his mother and father used to live. 

Wren arrives outside, clad in the innocuous white uniform. He can see from the set of her shoulders that she's come to the same conclusion.

They're going to start another rebellion.


	6. Chapter 6

Well. Not right away. By the time they get back into the Capitol, they're both exhausted. They pull back into the station in early morning light. They have to get rid of the Peacekeeper uniforms. Then they separate without saying anything else, Wren to her house, Tristan to his. He collapses in his bed for a few hours before pulling himself upright again. He can't let himself sleep through the day. They need to be up and about, seen. 

For his part, he has dinner at Rosie's house. He shows up early and is told that Rosie isn't ready yet, so he sits and waits in the foyer. (It's strange to realize how many Avoxes are actually in the house. He wonders which of them have been in communications with Finnick, which of them know that secret language.)

He hasn't been there long when another knock comes on the main door. He expects it to be another friend of theirs, but when he stands to see who is entering, he's faced with four Peacekeepers – two who have their weapons drawn, pointed at his chest.

This isn't happening. He feels this strange separation from his body. This _can't_ be happening to him. Not in the middle of the Capitol, not in Rosie's house. 

But it is. 

“Get on the ground!” the lead Peacekeeper snaps. Tristan's eyes bounce to the Avoxes in the room and then he gets down. He is shaking, he realizes. He places his palms flat on the expensive rug he's lying on top of, his heart hammering away so loud in his chest he's sure that everyone else has to hear it, surely. 

The Peacekeeper who issued the order rounds the couch, sticks a booted foot in the middle of his shoulder blades, and then wrenches his arms behind his back to cuff him. He struggles to sort out what he should be doing in this moment. Should he be protesting? Should he be fighting, trying to get a message to the Avoxes? Should he be doing what he's doing already – nothing? Just letting this happen?

“ _What are you doing_?” Rosie, horrified, has come downstairs. He twists his head and he can see her walking across the ground, hurriedly. 

“Let him go!” Rosie says indignantly. “You can't do this!”

“We have orders to take him to President Snow, miss,” the Peacekeeper says deferentially. He hauls Tristan up neatly to his feet, but it takes Tristan a minute to get them firmly beneath him. Suddenly, he's face to face with Rosie.

(He's waited too long to tell, he realizes. It should have been before now, and now his chance has been taken away from him. They'll tell her whatever is convenient.)

“Not like this, surely,” Rosie says, growing more irritated. “He's my fiance, not some _criminal_.”

“He's being arrested on charges of treason,” the Peacekeeper says gravely, the last thing he willingly says to Rosie before he jerks Tristan away. Her eyes widen, mouth drops open.

“Rosie,” Tristan says pleadingly, but the Peacekeeper forces him to walk back toward the door he'd just walked in of his own volition. She stands where she is, still shell-shocked, but then seems to remember herself. She follows right after then, still insisting that that's _ridiculous_ , but it does nothing to stop the Peacekeepers. 

Tristan is half carried down the front steps, taken out to the waiting vehicles. The throngs of people near the house stop and stare at him – Tristan Aldjoy, being arrested in the middle of the afternoon, hauled out of one of the Snows' houses. (Is this good or bad? That he's been shown off to the rest of the city? He doesn't know. All he knows is that he's scared. He wonders if, somewhere, Wren is being arrested as well.)

“Tristan,” Rosie calls out fretfully once more. She tries to reach for him as he's thrown into the backseat of the car.

“I love you,” he calls back to her. Because he doesn't know what's going to happen to him and he doesn't know what she'll be told about him. But in the end, that is still the one true thing between them. 

The door is slammed in his face. Even through the tinted windows, he can still see her, standing there, looking small. 

The car starts to move. Tristan tries to steel himself, to sit up straighter. It's a charade, but it's one of the last defenses he has. They don't have to drive far to get to the Presidential Manor, and he's dragged out in the same manner – up the stairs, through the doors, down the hallway, and suddenly he's inside of the main office, tucked into a chair. The Peacekeepers don't leave, but remain, becoming like statues. 

He only has a moment, maybe two, to wonder what's going to happen, when Eleanor walks into the room. She is straight-backed and cold, the picture of the president herself. She doesn't even look at him until she is standing behind her desk, fingers templed against one edge. She looks at him scathingly. He's never seen this expression on her before. 

“You have gravely disappointed me,” are the first words that come out of her mouth. “You have been given every chance to succeed, Tristan, a life and an education that thousands would do anything for. I was going to welcome you into _my_ family, and you threw that away. All of it. For people who you don't know and certainly aren't worthy of anyone's admiration.”

“Your _grandfather_ killed my mother and took me from my father!” Tristan snaps at her. What's the point in denying anything? However he's been found out, Eleanor knows – what she knows precisely, he's not sure, but any number of things that he and Wren have done are enough to condemn them.

“ _You_ are too young to know the devastation of that war,” Eleanor answers back unflinchingly. “The _violence_ that those rebels wanted to inflict upon us – it was only a reminder that a stern hand is the only way to deal with these districts. They misbehave and then pretend not to understand why we need the Hunger Games to keep them in control. They've poisoned you to think that taking you from them was an act of aggression. It was an act of _kindness_. The only chance you were ever going to have to live out a normal life unmarred by the mark of rebellion.”

“Which is why you had us manufactured,” Tristan says acidly. “Because you were _saving_ us.”

Eleanor stares at him coldly.

“I suppose it was a lot to think you would be able to overcome the disposition of your blood,” she says. “Although I should thank you for revealing this side of yourself before marrying my sister.” She pauses, regathers herself. “For your acts of aggression against Panem, I sentence you to confinement until I find a more suitable punishment for you.” 

“You think Willow won't figure this out eventually too?” Tristan snaps at her. “That she's not your niece at all? You think she won't hate you the same as I do? You can't hide the truth of what you _do_ to innocent people for forever, Eleanor!” 

She waves the back of her hand at him.

“Take him out of my sight.” 

The Peacekeepers gather him back up out of the chair. They start walking him back toward the front entrance, but before they reach it, a bag is thrown over his head. He disappears from this world. He can't see where they're going, except to know that he's placed back in the car. They drive – for how long, Tristan has a difficult time telling, although he tries to pay attention. It's hard to breathe with the bag, and he feels disorientated. His breath starts coming quick, and it's a struggle just to calm himself down. 

They walk some more, gravel crunching underfoot. They pass inside, somewhere new. Tristan is marched down hallway after hallway, making turn after turn. The air here is cold. Finally, they stop. He's held in place as they take the handcuffs off him and then the bag a moment later. He's in a small cell, Peacekeepers still surrounding him. 

“Take your clothes off,” the leader orders him. Tristan's stomach tightens. He's actually scared now. Terrified scared. Scared in a way that he doesn't think he's ever been in his pampered life before. He'd been angry when he'd been with Eleanor, but now he's seeing the repercussions of his actions. He doesn't dare refuse. He unbuttons his shirt first and hands it over, and then follows the same process with his pants and shoes until he's standing just in his boxers. And then there's a new level of vulnerability. 

They don't make him strip any further though. A grey jumpsuit is passed to him and he puts that on. The fabric is both thin and scratchy.

The Peacekeepers retreat from his cell. The bars are shut, and he's locked in.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Aldjoy,” the head Peacekeeper taunts him as they leave.

Tristan remains resilient until they're out of sight. He walks up to the bars and tries to peer down the hallway. There's no one across from him. He waits, but he can't hear anything anywhere near him. Is he really alone here? 

“Hello?” he calls. He wants to shout Wren's name, but he doesn't dare. He doesn't think there's half a chance that she hasn't also been caught and arrested, but in the incredibly off chance that they haven't clued into her, he's not going to draw attention to her.

There's no answer to his shout in any case.

He turns back around and looks at the small few feet that now belong to him. There's a thin cotton pad on the ground to the right. A toilet. No window. He has no idea if he's above ground or not. 

Is this the last place that he's going to see? Does he dare hope that Eleanor will relent? (No. Because she's Coriolanus' hand-picked successor, and Tristan knows that she had to have been trained in all the techniques her grandfather used to keep an ironclad hold on Panem.) Can he dare hope that someone else will rescue him? That Wren will have been smarter than he was and somehow evaded capture? That, somewhere, Finnick or Peeta will find out what has been done to him and find a way to rescue him? He can't help but worry over that, because that'll put both of them in heightened danger. 

He lays down on the pad and stares up at the dank ceiling. Already, he can feel an itching energy, something that breathes down the neck of madness, seeping into his skin. He tries not to give into it.

…

He wakes up to the sensation of being watched – well, more so than just the cameras. He sits up, looks through the bars, and is shocked to see Ashleen standing there. He feels a buck of hope in his chest, and he has to quickly wrestle it back down. His first thought is that his sister is here. But he has to remind himself that he can't trust her.

In truth, this is the hardest part of everything – having to unlearn trusting all the people who have claimed to love him and care for him all of his life. Partially, because, he suspects that Ashleen had believed a lot of the things she had told him when they had discussed Finnick. Maybe his parents – the Aldjoys – really had believed they were giving him a second chance when they had taken him from Annie. But to allow them all to be excused for this is dangerous. They've bought into this system that has badly hurt a lot of people. Their _belief_ is more dangerous.

“I told you to stop,” Ashleen says softly when she sees that he's awake. “I _told_ you to let this go. Now, look what's happened.”

“I was trying to do what was right,” Tristan answers. He stands up and comes to a stop in front of the bars. 

“Right for who, Tristan?” Ashleen asks, shaking her head. “This all happened so long ago. You really can't see that digging all this up again is painful for a lot of people? What can you possibly hope to accomplish with all of this?” 

Frustration flares in his blood. What can he say to show her why this _matters_ to him? Is there anything? Or is she too set in what she thinks to be able to hear how he feels?

“How can you believe the way we live is possibly right?” Tristan presses. “Just taking everything from the districts? That we watch _children_ die for entertainment?”

Ashleen shuts her eyes and presses her fingers against the bridge of his nose.

“Listen to me,” she says sharply. “The only chance you have of getting out of here is by apologizing for what you've done and _actually_ letting go of these things. Are these majestic people from districts you've never been to worth being locked up in here for the rest of your life, Tristan? Because that's the reality of the situation you're in. You need to stop. You need to accept the reality of the world.”

Tristan looks at her doubtfully. The way she's talking – it sounds like his fate isn't decided yet. But he can't do the things she's asking of him.

“That's what I'm here to tell you, all right,” she says more plainly. “President Snow is willing to be merciful and make a deal with you. You have to swear you won't do anything rebellious anymore. You're not allowed to be in contact with past victors or the other victor children. She believes, as I do, that you weren't the one who was behind most of these acts. That someone was encouraging you.”

Tristan is wary of where this is going. 

“Just confess that it was Wren Le Beau who was behind it,” Ashleen says.

“What will happen to Wren?” Tristan asks.

“Tristan,” Ashleen sighs.

“ _What will happen to Wren_?” Tristan asks again.

“She'll be executed for treason,” Ashleen answers staunchly. Tristan feels dizzy. 

“She _has_ committed treason,” Ashleen presses. “She's not going to get away with that. She's likely to die either way. But you don't have to throw away your life on this.”

“I'm not condemning my sister to die!” Tristan shouts.

“ _I_ am your sister!” Ashleen answers, raising her voice for the first time. “I am the one who is here trying to save your life!” 

“I won't do it,” Tristan answers staunchly. 

“Tristan,” Ashleen says, and she actually sounds pained this time. “Please don't ask me to watch you die – or to just live with the knowledge that you're stuck down here.” She presses a hand through the bars, puts it on top of his. “Mom and Dad, me and Phox – we all love you. I know that, maybe, you're having a hard time believing that right now. But we do. We all love you so much. And I know this is hard for you. Please don't think that I don't know that. But we all just want you to come _home_.” 

It's this plea that makes Tristan feel a strong sting of guilt. The only thing that keeps him from agreeing to do what she wants is the reminder that, if he does, he's contributing to Wren's demise.

“I'm sorry,” he says softly.

He tries to squeeze her hand, but she pulls away. She casts one more tearful look at him and then heads back down the hallway, her heels click over the stone floor. He retreats back to his pad to try and blot down everything he's feeling.

…

Time becomes thin and nebulous. He has no way of keeping track of how long he's down here. He sleeps, he wakes. He paces. They bring him meals, but it doesn't seem on any set schedule. He doesn't see anyone for a long time after Ashleen leaves. 

In the quiet, he begins to hear voices. Whispers. He focuses and focuses on them, trying to figure out if they're real or not. He can never make out words. He decides they're coming from his mind, but it does nothing to blot them out. He covers his ears with his hands and wills them away. 

He feels childish and weak that he's falling apart so quickly, under so little pressure. 

What will be left of him by the time someone comes for him?

Is anyone coming for him?

…

He wakes up to someone standing in front of the bars. He's so sure that it's Ashleen come again that he doesn't look. He keeps his head tucked into his arm, facing away from the bars and the person hovering in front of him. But minutes drag on and the person doesn't try to talk to him at all. The hairs on the back of his neck raise, and he's eventually forced to look. 

A Peacekeeper. But even when their eyes meet, she just stands there. Staring.

“What?” Tristan asks, low, even though he knows he has no business mouthing off to a Peacekeeper. He wonders how they could make his life worse – but that's a challenge he shouldn't dare. Things could be much worse. No one has actually touched him here, and while the meals aren't regular, he's certainly not starving. 

She gestures him forward with a motion of her hand. Something about that – the gesture instead of the verbal command catches his attention. He does as he's told. He clambers to his feet and heads toward the bars, eyeing her cautiously. He looks up and down the hallway the best that he can, but he doesn't see anyone else. When he's nearly at the bars, she pulls out a key, and unlocks the bars. 

This is new. 

He's still feeling uncertain. Is this a trick? What's going to happen next? But she gestures him forward again, and he walks through the bars. She takes hold of his arm, but the hold isn't painful. It's light, all things considered. 

She walks down the hall with measured purpose. Tristan wants to ask where they're going, but he's not sure he wants to know. He's still afraid if he's being honest. After days of nothing, something is happening. 

They head up a flight of stairs. She has to stop every now and then in this new hallway to unlock gates. But at no point does she seem rushed. Everything she does is calm and steady. She doesn't offer any explanation for where they're going. Finally, they reach a heavy metal door. She opens this one, and daylight hits Tristan hard. He flinches away from it, raises one hand. How long has been since he's felt daylight on his face? How long has it been since he's breathed clean air? He wants to stay and relish this feeling, because he doesn't know how long it will last, but she takes hold of his arm and guides him down the steps.

In the driveway, another Peacekeeper is waiting for them inside of a vehicle. 

She opens the back door for him, and he gets in. It's only when he's in the backseat that he realizes he's not handcuffed, not like last time. This is different. Something is happening.

She climbs into the passenger seat. The driver starts the engine and they drive through barbed-wire fences that open in front of them. 

“Where are we going?” he asks finally, but there's no answer. They drive through the streets of the Capitol instead. How odd is that just weeks ago, he was just one of the people here? Who didn't stick out of the crowd, who was _preparing for a wedding_? And now he's a criminal, separated. 

They stop in front of the train station, but don't go in the front entrance. They head toward the back where the trains are housed when they're not traveling. Only three, because there's not much need when so few people are allowed to travel between the districts. They sit, silver and sleek next to each other. 

Why are they here? Is he being taken somewhere else? He thinks of the asylum where Johanna is and his blood runs cold. Or is he being taken to another district to be executed? (What's the point in that? When his death can be broadcast everywhere? And, in reality, why do the districts really care about him? He's one lost boy. A boy who has never really existed, caught in the aftermath of the war. He is the remnant of a hero, not a hero himself.)

The car comes to a stop, and the Peacekeepers come around, tug him out. He wants to resist. The flaring panic in his body tells him to do that. But he doesn't, because he doesn't know what it will achieve. 

They head toward one of the trains. Just before they reach the steps, a figure appears at the top. He stares. 

Wren.

But she's not in the grey jumpsuit, isn't handcuffed, and she smiles when she sees him. 

“Come on,” she says quietly, gesturing him. He looks right and then left at the Peacekeepers. The woman who had walked him out of the cell smiles at him. He allows himself to feel a flicker of hope. They let go of his arms and he walks up the steps to the train under his own power.

“What's happening?” Tristan asks Wren, hushed.

“We're breaking out,” Wren answers. Tristan is too overwhelmed to really process what that means. He just follows her instead. She heads toward the front of the train, takes a seat in front of the controls.

“I've never driven a train before,” Wren says. “I'd sit down and buckle in.”

He does. He sits in the opposite seat, his numb hands doing the belt across his lap.

“Where are we going?” Tristan asks.

“We're going to District 12,” she answers. 

“And you don't think that somebody is going to notice that one of the trains is missing?” he asks. “That they'll follow us?”

“They will,” Wren answers. “But, I think, when they bombed Twelve, they took out their own camera systems. But we'll stay away from the formerly populated areas. We'll head into the forests. It should be nearly impossible to find us at that point.” She starts up the train as she talks and it whirrs to life beneath them.

“Do you really think this will work?” Tristan asks.

She looks at him directly. 

“This is the only option we have left,” she says, her voice measured.

That said, she jams the train forward. They jerk out of place and then are flying down the track. They zip through the Capitol. The buildings blur by them. They're going too fast to see anything in specific. When they reach the water, the edges of the city, Tristan gets up and walks to the back of the train. Through the glass windows, he watches the Capitol, the only home he's known his entire life, recede into the distance. 

He wonders if he'll ever return.

…

He stays back there for a long time, collecting his thoughts. Only now that he's someplace safe is he really able to process what had just happened to him – how he is now a fugitive. He'll probably never see Rosie again. It seems like it should be a small part of everything that is happening, but he truly does regret that he's not going to have the chance to really explain to her what had happened. That he had never meant her any harm. They'll lie about him to her. She might hate him now.

But also, they're heading into the woods. Him and Wren. She probably has better survival skills than he does, but he wonders if they actually have the tenacity to survive in the wilderness. Two Capitol kids who have never had to do anything on their own before. Will they succeed in finding Katniss Everdeen? That is maybe their last hope. He knows the question then is: What next? They had dreamed of starting another rebellion for a few seconds. Are they capable of doing that if the former face of the rebellion helps them?

He also wonders over who exactly helped them before. He knows Wren couldn't have pulled that off on her own, and, based on his experience with those so-called Peacekeepers, he guesses that the Avoxes were probably involved.

There are other people, he knows, who are ready to fight the Capitol. The Avoxes. The victors. Those left over from the last rebellion. They just need to find a way to connect all these people. They've been purposefully separated to weaken them. If they have a unified front, they will be strong though. 

He heads into one of the rooms and showers. There are some clothes, fairly generic, in one of the drawers, and he puts those on in favor of the jumpsuit. That, he deserts on the floor with no intention of reclaiming it.

He's about to head back up to the front of the train when he hears something from another one of the rooms. In the main dining car, he freezes. He listens for a few more seconds. There's definitely someone else with them. It doesn't even sound like he or she is trying to mask his or her presence. He hurries up to the front car.

“Wren,” he hisses. “There's someone else here.”

She looks up at him, unperturbed.

“Gemma,” she says. “Gemma Mellark is with us.”

He sinks weakly down into the chair adjacent hers once again.

“Why? Why is she here?”

“Peeta helped me escape,” Wren answers, turning to face him. “The Avoxes knew we were being arrested before it even happened. They told Peeta. Peeta sent two of them to get me, and they moved me underground for awhile. The only reason they didn't get to you beforehand was because you were at Rosalind's. They couldn't find you. It took some time to make a plan on how to get you out. Peeta asked me to take Gemma with us. He was worried that if they refocus on all of the victor kids, Snow would take her away from him.”

“But if Gemma disappears with us, that's practically an admission of guilt on Peeta's part,” Tristan says. 

“I know,” Wren says gravely. “He said it didn't matter as long as Gemma was safe. I tried to get him to come with us, but he was worried that if he came with, they would look harder for us. He thought the three of us, on our own, were more likely to be able to get away. We're less of a threat than he is.”

Tristan didn't like that. He wishes they could have convinced Peeta to come with them. But there's nothing he could do about it now. They can't return to the Capitol. That would put them all in danger and directly contradict everything that Peeta had done for them. No. All they can do now is protect Gemma to the best of their ability.

“Do you think Eleanor'll go for the others?” Tristan asked, hushed. Probably not Willow. But that leaves, based on what they've sorted out, two other victor children who are in danger. Who probably also still don't know what they are. 

“I don't know,” Wren answers. He can hear the pain in her voice, that she also wishes they could do more. 

…

Wren gives him a few tasks before they arrive in District 12. He and Gemma are to find all the food on the train that they can and pack up anything else that might be useful. Gemma takes a duffel bag and starts raiding the train car. There's not too much that will last long, but some snacks and a few packaged items, including a loaf of bread. Tristan packs up the clothes in the rooms, some of the smaller blankets. He finds some matches, too, and some bottled water. He chucks in a few bars of soap, figuring that won't hurt. After some deliberation, he takes a bottle of alcohol, because he figures that might good for cleaning wounds in case they get injured.

He and Gemma are in the main dining car together for a long time. He wants to say something to her. Maybe to apologize. But mostly he doesn't know what to say to her. She must miss her dad. She must be as overwhelmed by this as they are. He wonders if she knew all along that Katniss Everdeen was her mother. Or is that a new revelation too? Has she been made to reevaluate the foundation of her life as well?

She's only 11 if Tristan remembers correctly, and he can't imagine having to do that at her age. It's bad enough for him at 18. 

“Do you want to bring anything else?” Tristan asks her. It feels like a stupid question. He's just trying to be kind.

“No,” Gemma answers. Her little shoulders are close together, tight. The pink at the bottom of her hair seems almost garish in this situation. He wonders, quietly, how long it will take for that to fade once they're out in the woods.

Beneath them, the train grinds to a stop.

“You know Willow Snow.” It's not a question so much as a comment. Tristan turns and looks at her directly. 

“Yes,” he answers.

“She's my sister,” Gemma says. The way she says it makes Tristan realize that she hasn't grown up knowing who her mother is. This is all new to her too. 

“Yes,” Tristan says again. 

“What's she like?” Gemma asks curiously.

What is Willow Snow like? She's _Willow_. It's hard to put that into words. He's never paid as much attention to Willow as Rosie, but the three of them grew up together. 

“Willow likes to be outside,” Tristan says finally. He remembers that. He and Rosie would always retreat inside and there Willow would still be, outside by herself. She was always fine being on her own, far more independent than Rosie and him. She had hardly seemed to mind when their trio had started becoming Tristan-and-Rosie. 

“She likes plants a lot,” Tristan recalls. She was always in the greenhouse, growing things. Not just the flowers that Coriolanus seemed to prefer. No, she liked herbs and medicinal plants. Things that she would proudly show to Rosie and Tristan, and Tristan never understood why she was so intent on these little green sprigs. 

“Do you know Rye Slender? Poppy Leonine?” Gemma presses.

Tristan knows their names. But Rye and Poppy are both several years younger than him. Rye had been catching everyone's attentions through wrestling at school, but he doesn't know anything about Poppy. He shakes his head. 

“Are you ready to go?” Wren asks coming through the doorway. 

“Yes,” Gemma answers. Her attention is already onto the next thing as if the conversation had never happened. Wren picks up one of the packs and shoulders it. 

“Let's get going,” Wren says, nodding at him. 

They disembark from the train. Immediately, it's like they've entered a completely different world. Four had been strange enough, but this is nothing like Four. No, this is a ghost town. District 12 obviously hasn't been touched since it was bombed. None of the buildings that still stand are complete. Most are half-collapsed in on themselves. The walls that still stand are made of brick. Nature has overtaken this area. Trees grow in tangent with the ruins, green sprouting in the middle of burned black and dingy brown. 

Tristan steps forward first and his foot immediately goes through a skull. He shouts, unable to hold the sound in. He scurries backward. 

The people were never buried here. They were left and now there are bones just underneath the grass, Tristan realizes. His stomach knots up. The last thing he wants to do is make the walk to the woods. 

“Come on,” Wren says. She holds a hand out for Gemma, who takes it. They start walking and Tristan has no choice but to shoulder his pack and follow after them. The three of them valiantly try to ignore what they're walking on. They come too near one building and just the tremors from their footsteps make it collapse the rest of the way. None of them say anything when they pass a crumbling wall that still says “Mellark Bakery.” The painting has peeled off from most of the letters, but it's still clear enough for them to read. 

Gemma tucks herself in a little closer to Wren. 

They stop in a few places, gathering more supplies – some knives, a rusted axe, some string, and various other things that seem like they might be useful. It's hard not to take everything, but they have to carry anything they bring with them. And, to be fair, there's not really that much left here. 

Finally, though, they're across most of the worst of the remains and near the fence. It's rusted in most places, vines hanging off of it. One section is down completely where a tree crashed through it. It's there that they cross. Wren heads up first, balancing on the tree. She reaches down for Gemma, and Tristan helps boost her up. He pulls himself up last.

Once they're over that section, the bones recede. The remnants of the houses are no longer there. It's just nature, and that's easier to deal with. They don't have to hike far before they find a lake and an open meadow. Around those, they find a small hut, the wood warped by weather, but probably the last vestige of humanity before they disappear in the woods.

Wren observes the daylight for a long time. Tristan can tell that she wants to go further. It wouldn't be that hard to find them if Peacekeepers showed up tonight. But the light is fading, the three of them are ill-prepared for this foray. They're going to need light to get further away, to set up a place for them to sleep, and to find food that they can actually eat. This will have to do tonight. And that's what Wren decides.

The three of them huddle together. They eat what they took off the train, curl in together with Gemma in the middle and pull the blankets over them.

It takes Tristan a long time to fall asleep. After the absolute silence of the prison, the sounds of the forest around them are almost disturbing. He's never seen darkness like this before. He's used to the lights of the Capitol, the buzzing noise of the street below. Around them the trees creak. Animals call to each other – creatures that Tristan doesn't even have names for. When he does fall asleep, his rest is uneasy. The ground beneath him is hard, lumpy.

He wakes up once before dawn to Gemma crying – whether because of a nightmare or just because she's upset, Tristan's not sure. He hears Wren murmuring to her gently, coaxing her back asleep with a patience that surprises Tristan. He wraps his arms around them, hoping that it helps a bit. It must, because Gemma calms down. Wren touches his arm gently in the dark. All three of them fall back asleep until the light wakes them.


	7. Chapter 7

Wren sets about hiding their presence and then they're off into the woods. They weave this way and that, mostly just trying to put as much distance between them and the former residents of District 12. Wren keeps one eye on the sky, but there's no sign of hovercrafts.

They rest only a few times, stopping to eat or for water breaks. They'll be out of train food by the end of the day. If they want to eat tomorrow, they're going to have to pick something or catch something. That awareness sits heavily with Tristan. He doesn't know anything more about surviving out here than he did when he got on the train yesterday.

His feet grow sore almost immediately. He gets blisters _everywhere_ on his feet, and his muscles ache with so much exertion. He's never walked this far in his life. He knows that Gemma and Wren have to be tired too. Gemma is the one who comes up with the trick of telling stories. She starts off by telling them funny stories about people who have come into the bakery. Tristan doesn't realize what she's doing until he realizes he's concentrating on what she's saying instead of on his pain. She's a good storyteller and Tristan is suddenly reminded of the old interviews of Peeta before going into the 74th Games. She has that same sort of easy charisma.

Wren and Tristan aren't as good at this game – mostly because they don't have many stories they can pull from that don't come with some dose of unease. Wren tells mostly stories she's read of the old world, which are interesting in their own right and Tristan certainly doesn't know about most of them. Again, he's forced to wonder where Wren learns all these things. 

Sometime around dinner Wren decides that they've gone far enough for today. There's a small clearing where they decide to stop. Wren sets up some snares around the area, trying to keep any animals from running across them while Tristan gets to work on building a fire. It's harder than he would have expected. He has to work at it for nearly an hour before he's able to coax a small flame to life. He smiles up at Wren, unabashedly proud of his work.

“I think I know what we can eat around here,” Gemma offers when those tasks are complete. He and Gemma end up wandering the small area around their campsite. She picks through berries and roots deftly. He doesn't know what she looks for, but just holds the small cache she picks out. Tristan wonders if they can really manage this. If he thinks about this in the long term, it feels impossible. The idea of never having electricity or running water again? But if he thinks about it from day to day, he thinks, just maybe, they can do this. They'll learn as they go along. 

He turns out to be right on that score. It's hard on the days that it rains at first. They sit, wet and miserable, in the muddy remains on their campground. But each day they move a little further in. Gemma gets better at picking out what they can eat. There are plenty of lakes and streams throughout the forest, so water is never really a problem. When they find long branches, they concoct fishing poles. Gemma doesn't mind plucking worms out of the ground, so she'll do that while Wren and Tristan wait patiently. The fish are easy when they're near water, but they start to manage to put together fairly good traps. It takes them a long time sometimes to catch things, but they manage. They grow lean and sturdy with the new diet and the rigorous days of walking. 

One day they're finally far enough in and Wren decides they're okay. They'll be safe. They'll hear anyone coming before they arrive. This will be their new home. They set about chopping wood to make a cabin like the one they came across. 

The weather is still nice, but now that they've decided to put down roots Tristan starts to worry about long-term problems again: What are they going to do when winter comes? They'll need warmer clothes, heavier blankets. He knows, somehow, they should be able to make that out of the furs from the animals, but they don't have any needles or thread right now. How much access will they still have to wildlife? They have the benefit of time, but he doesn't how much time is going to be able to buy them.

They're a few weeks in and the cabin is going well. They have a small stockpile of food. Gemma is sleeping in late while Tristan and Wren are cooking breakfast. (Rabbit, a nice change of pace from squirrel.) 

Tristan doesn't notice anything but Wren suddenly stops him, bringing a finger up to her mouth. Tristan almost asks her _what_? But he remains quiet. Wren reaches for the axe near her and stands slowly. She looks into the trees surrounding them, but if she sees anything, Tristan can't tell. He inches for one of the knives, but he's not confident he can use it a way that is helpful at all. Skinning animals is more than enough for him. He can't imagine that he'd be capable of hurting a person with it. But then again, he would have never thought he'd be able to survive this long in the wild.

Wren looks menacing enough with the axe though. 

“What are you doing here?” It's a woman's voice, but Tristan has a hard time telling where it's coming from. Wren glances up, takes half a step back toward him. She glances at him over her shoulder and pauses.

“Katniss?” she calls. 

_Katniss_. Is it possible? Has she found them? Is she actually here? Tristan's heart beats in his ears. But she doesn't answer them. He's afraid, for a moment, that she's gone. That maybe they scared her off. 

“Katniss,” Wren calls again patiently. “I'm Wren Le Beau. This is Tristan Aldjoy. Do you know who we are?”

It's a good chance. Every other victor has known about them. There's no reason to think that Katniss doesn't too. But still, silence. Tristan can't hear birds either. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

“Gemma is here with us,” Wren calls after another pause. “Gemma Mellark. Do you want to see her? We'll be here. We're not moving. If you want to come visit.”

Wren lowers her axe back to the ground. Tristan follows suit, placing the knife down. With exaggerated motions, they sit back down on the stumps they've pulled up around their fire. Wren goes back to cooking breakfast, but they're both listening intently. They're waiting to see if the Girl on Fire herself is about to pay them a visit. 

Tristan wishes there was more they could do. He badly wants to start moving around the forest to see if he can spot her. But he knows that if Wren has decided not to do this then they don't stand a chance of finding Katniss. If that was her. But if it was, that means she's been in this forest by herself for over 11 years. She knows how to survive. They wouldn't stand a chance of tracking her – and Tristan is becoming more and more sure that she was in a tree somewhere above them, a trick from her games, if he remembers correctly.

Gemma wakes up and sits with them. They don't tell her what happened, but Tristan is sure that she can sense something is off with them. They try and go about their routines anyway. Gemma and Tristan head to the river to fish while Wren chops wood. 

They're starting to cook lunch when Tristan makes out footsteps near them. They're so pronounced that Tristan knows whoever it is giving them warning. Gemma looks up, concerned, but Wren just shakes her head to alleviate her worries.

They're just about done cooking when Tristan catches sight of Katniss, kneeling near a tree on the perimeter of their campsite.

“You can join us,” he says to her gently. She looks at him distrustingly. 

The teenager who started the rebellion is a shadow inside this woman. He recognizes the same haunted aspect that he had seen in Johanna and Finnick. But this is even more pronounced in Katniss. Her hold on her humanity seems tenuous at best. Johanna had been shaken, but she seemed to have maintained some core of herself. That doesn't seem to be the same for Katniss. Her hair is a wild mess, long, untamed, no longer confined to that notorious braid. She lingers near the tree, one hand curled against it. The other remains with her bow – handmade, Tristan thinks. It looks rough, but she clings to it like a lifeline. Her eyes keep darting, from Tristan to Wren to Gemma. She lingers the longest on Gemma. She has to pull herself away when she wants to look back at Tristan.

He decides to take this as a good sign. She _knows_ Gemma. Some part of her recognizes the last daughter she gave up, even if it's only because Tristan and Wren told her her name. 

“We're not going to hurt you,” Tristan says softly. (That has been a concern, hasn't it? That Snow had sent them. He hadn't fully thought about that when Johanna had been scared of it. He suspects that's what Vanora and Finnick had been discussing in front of then, when they couldn't understand the two of them. He wonders how bad things would have had to get for Eleanor to send them in to be used against the victors. Would they have done these things willingly? Or would they have been tricked? But he doesn't want to entertain those thoughts because they're not going to happen.)

Yet, Katniss backs away a little at the statement. 

Wren comes to stand behind him. She rests a hand against his shoulder.

“We're just going to sit here and eat,” Wren says again. “We won't go anywhere. If you want to join us.”

Tristan wants to keep pressing, but he follows Wren's lead instead. 

They return to their campfire. Gemma is staring at Katniss, not diverting her gaze even when Wren tries to distract her. Tristan feels bad. He feels as if they should have prepared her better for this. They, of all people, know how difficult it is to suddenly see this person you've only been told is your parent – and to see how they've been destroyed by the world instead of what's left of them first. 

He and Wren fumble through some farce of a conversation. Halfway through, Tristan looks over back over at Gemma. Gemma is looking at the ground now, twisting some of her hair in between her hands. Tristan looks back into the forest. Katniss is gone. Something jolts inside of him. He wants to get up and look for her now, but he knows they don't stand a chance at finding her. 

He focuses on Gemma instead. She's twisting the last part of her pink hair. It's just about washed out now, leaving her with that golden blond that's all Peeta. But the waviness of it – that's Katniss. Having seen her now, he can suss out which parts of her are. 

“Are you okay?” he asks gently, peering up into her face.

“I miss my dad,” she confesses. A tear runs down from her eye and slides down the little peak of her nose. 

Tristan moves across the small clearing to gather Gemma up in his arms. He's been aware of how much younger she is than them, but she hasn't really let that show until this moment. She starts crying immediately against his shoulder, deep, bone-wracking sobs. She's maybe lost more than either of them. Tristan doesn't know what the relationship between Wren and her adopted mother is, but he's suspected it's not strong. As for him – well, his relationship with his adoptive family has crumbled. They've lied to him. He has to be able to forgive them to miss then. 

But Gemma – Gemma had her real dad all along, who was always just trying to protect her. He put himself in danger one last time to protect her _again_ , and Gemma doesn't know if she'll ever see him again. All she has now is the two of them, who, yes, have been trying to take care of her, but they were strangers up until weeks ago. And now Katniss has finally shown herself – and disappeared just as quickly. He knows that has to hurt. It has to come as some level of disappointment. The promise of a mother who could still love her was the last thing that Gemma had. That might still happen, but certainly not now. 

Tristan can't say anything that will help her though. So he just holds her, making soft shushing noises into her hair. 

She cries herself out and even then remains hidden against him. 

Eventually Wren gets up. 

“Let's go swimming,” she suggests, smacking Tristan on the back of the head. He glances up at her, surprised. They each have their allotted tasks they need to get done. But today is apparently a today they're going to take for themselves. Swimming is maybe the only thing they can do for fun around here. 

Tristan nods, and helps Gemma to her feet. The three of them make a ragged little line down to the lake nearest them. They shimmy down to just their underthings and then splash into the water. Tristan has never swam in anything other than the neatly maintained pools in the Capitol. He gasps as they chilly water hits his skin. 

Wren lets out a shriek of laughter that sounds utterly unlike her. When he turns to look at her, she splashes him right in the face. He drips, sopping wet, but Gemma lets out a nervous little giggle. So, he does the only thing he can: He draws back his arms to hit Wren as hard as he can.

“Don't--!” she starts to bellow, but it's far too late. Within moments, all three of them are splashing each other, creating so much noise that, if there were any Peacekeepers in the woods, they would be heard from miles around. 

But Peacekeepers and lost parents are the last thing on any of their minds right now. 

Tristan slips on rocks at one point and lands hard on his backside. Gemma makes a squeaking noise, tries not to laugh, and fails utterly. But once he's down he stays that way. He takes deep gulping breaths and swims across the bottom of the lake to grab at their feet. Wren, in particular, hates that. She shouts at him, trying her best to sound angry and threatening. When that fails to work, she takes to trying to kick him, which ends up in a throbbing shoulder for him and a bruised shin for her. 

They don't leave until it's nearly dark.

The air is chilled, and Tristan's skin prickles as soon as they're up and out. They have to start up the fire again, and they're all freezing, but it was worth it. They all sleep well that night.

Tristan wakes up first the next morning. He slips out of their makeshift home and immediately spots what's been left for them: A deer is strung up near a tree. It's larger than anything they've been able to capture this far with Wren's snares. On one of the nearby stumps a heavy blanket, made up of several fur pelts, also rests. He eyes it with obvious admiration, runs one hand slowly over it.

“Thank you,” he calls into the forest. He doesn't even know if Katniss is near enough to hear him. But he figures he should give his thanks anyway.

The next few days follow like that. There's always some gift waiting for them when they wake up. Things that they need or will need in the future. The next morning there's a handcarved bow with a quiver of arrows with sharp stone tips. Gemma is so entranced by it that they let her practice with it first, although they all take a turn, dutifully retrieving their precious arrows. Wren examines both the bow and the arrows. Tristan's sure her brain is putting together how she can make some of their own. 

The day after that, a pair of boots. They look old, are a chewed in a few places, and they're big even on Tristan. He can make them work if he shoves some fabric in the front though, so he's the one who gets to claim the boots. A lot of the gifts are game, food, and warm clothing for the impending winter. 

They say thank you as often a they can, having no idea if Katniss waits to see if their gifts are received. They try to leave some things of their own – which usually just amounts to berries or fish. They're not anything that Katniss couldn't get on her own, but Tristan supposes it's the thought that counts. And, for what it's worth, most mornings their little offerings are taken. 

A week into, Tristan finds himself up late one night with Wren. Gemma, tucked underneath their new blanket, sleeps on the floor of the almost-finished cabin.

“Do you think we can make it through the winter?” Tristan asks Wren softly, intently.

“With Katniss' help, yes,” Wren answers. “Without it, I don't know.” They both know that Katniss' help is a fickle thing. She still hasn't spoken to them. These gifts could stop as quickly as they started. If she does help them though – actually takes them in – they stand a good chance. She's survived out here, by herself, for years. 

Tristan opens his mouth to ask another question, but Wren looks sharply over her shoulder. They both grow quiet. At first, he hopes that it's Katniss coming to join them, that maybe their conversation has spurred her to realize how much they need her. But, no. What's moving in the forest beyond their line of sight isn't human. The forest has gone quiet in that area. Wren and Tristan stare into the darkness. A pair of glowing golden eyes appear, low to the ground.

Wren backs up slowly toward him. Moving just as cautiously, Tristan kneels. Without taking his eyes off the beast in the forest, he reaches for the bow, intending to pass it to Wren. She's a better shot than he is. Her hand is trembling when she takes the bow and a single arrow from him. He fetches the axe, holds it in his own hands, forcing them to be still. 

Wren exhales slowly and lines herself up. The arch of her back goes straight, her elbow drawn back. In the forest, the beast growls at them, as if sensing their intent. 

Wren lowers her aim, intending to hit the animal in the right eye. 

Time seems to slow down as Tristan waits for her to take the shot or the animal to pounce out at them. 

Wren is faster. 

The arrow zips through the air and disappears into the darkness. And misses.

Before they can process that she's missed, the beast leaps out of the shadows. A cat – larger than anything Tristan has never seen before – jumps over their fire and lands squarely in front of Wren. It yowls, the sound emanating from deep inside the animal. It swipes one enormous clawed paw back, intending to take Wren out. 

She drops at the last second, hands over her head, just barely missed. 

Tristan jerks forward. He swings the axe and hits the cat, embedding the rusted blade in the meat of the cat's shoulder. It screeches and spins, forgetting about Wren and focusing on him instead – the source of its pain. Tristan tries to get the axe out, but stumbles in his haste. Blood, ruby red and vivid in the firelight, drips down the animal's golden coat. It growls again, the sound like rumbling thunder, as it approaches Tristan. 

He fumbles hastily backward, his hands reaching for something, anything – one of the knives, an arrow. He's desperate for anything to protect himself. But there's nothing. His hands come up empty. Adrenaline courses through his body. His heart beats so loud that that's all he can hear besides the growling of the cat. 

( _This is it_ , he thinks. _This is how I die_. In his short life, this is the first time that thought has ricocheted across his brain.) 

The cat crouches, obviously intending to pounce on him.

Just before it can leap into the air, another arrow flies through the air. This one whistles just by past his ear and plants itself in the cat's right eye. 

Tristan stares. It takes his brain precious seconds more to sort that the cat is dead. It's not going to attack him. Belatedly, he looks over his shoulder. 

_Katniss_.

She comes out of the dark of the forest, plants a foot on the ribs of the cat, and plucks her arrow out of its eye. She wipes it on the calf of her pants, and then looks up at him. 

“Thank you,” he says, hushed. He's shaking. 

She nods at him. She strides past him and takes a seat beside their fire as she if she's always been there. It's Tristan and Wren who are dazed, who need a moment more before they can realize what's happened. _Katniss has joined them_.

Once Tristan's heart is back in his chest, he ventures back the enormous cat. He eyes it, as if he's afraid it's suddenly going to spring back to life. But, no, the shot was clean. It's dead. He sits beside Wren, across the fire from Katniss.

“Is Peeta dead?” 

“No,” Tristan answers even as Wren says, “We don't know.”

They look at each other. 

“We don't know,” Tristan amends, because he figures that's closer to the truth. 

“He's supposed to be protecting her,” Katniss says, jerking her head toward the cabin where Gemma is still asleep despite everything.

“That's why he sent her here with us,” Wren answers. And that's true at least. 

Katniss looks up, actually looks at the two of them. She looks harsher by firelight. Her eyes look dark, black through and through, and the shadows highlight the deep-cut lines in her face. There's something almost grotesque about it. She's something more or less than human, and Tristan doesn't know which it is. 

“We found out,” Tristan offers. “The truth. We found Johanna. And Finnick.”

He likes to think there's a flicker of recognization there, at those names, but he can't even say he's sure about that. 

“But we got caught,” Wren says. “Peeta was afraid that they'd come for Gemma too. So he sent her with us. Out here. So no one would find us.” 

Katniss nods. It's the only sign they have that she understands what's happening. 

“But Rye, Willow, and Poppy – they're all still in the Capitol,” Tristan presses, even though he knows maybe he shouldn't. He can feel Wren's gaze on him as if he rattles off the other stolen victor children, the ones who, as far they know, don't know anything about who they are. Still, they could be in danger – and all three of them are Katniss' children. She has to care about them, doesn't she?

He worries that he overestimates this. Maybe she's too dead inside to care. But she didn't desert them. She took care of them. She saved them from the cat – and he and Wren aren't even her kids. Still. There has to be something there, doesn't there?

“And Peeta,” because out of everything, he was the first one she asked about. Peeta is still there for her if nothing else is, “If he's still alive, he's got to be in danger. They'll know he sent Gemma out here with us. We could go back and save him.”

Katniss looks away from the fire, away from him. 

But even if she's not answering him, she's not shutting out his words entirely. He glances over at Wren. She shakes her head no, tells him to stop. He's going too far. But back when they were leaving Finnick's, he knew she was right there with him. She got there before he did, he's sure. They were ready to fight. They were ready to abolish the power structure in the Capitol, ready to put something more just and humane in its place. Why should that have changed any? They've been hiding out here, but maybe they don't need to. Maybe there's another option still. They have Katniss. And everyone else who was sick of Snow's regime is still there. What has changed, really? Sure, they're not in the Capitol anymore, but that just means they don't need to sneak around anymore. They've been caught. 

“Fight with us,” Tristan asks. 

“You can't fight the cat,” Katniss answers with a hoarse laugh. “What are you going to do when an army is staring you down? When all the power of the Capitol is unleashed on your head?”

It's a harsh answer. Not unfair, but hard to swallow. But then again, he's made it this far. All three of them have. Weeks ago they wouldn't have been able to do this. Who knows what they'll be capable of with a little more time? 

“What do you have left to lose?” Tristan shoots back with. His answer is just as harsh. “You've lost everything but your life. Or do you want to stay here, in the forest, by yourself? When you know that Peeta might be dying?”

That – that works. Katniss dips her eyes down, a deep frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. She mumbles something that Tristan doesn't quite catch, although he's certain that Finnick's name is in there.

His eyes dart back over to Wren. He's not sure if he's doing the right thing, but she's there with him, he's sure. She's still ready for the fight. They still have a lot to lose, but neither of them wants to spend the rest of their life hidden out in this forest. No, they haven't seen the same horrors that their parents have, but they also have a flame that has been extinguished or dampened in their parents. Maybe this is a mark of their youth. 

“Finnick is connected to the Avoxes,” Wren says leaning forward. “And the treatment of victors and the districts hasn't improved any. People will rise up with us if you come forward again.” 

Katniss fidgets. She doesn't like this attention. She grasps at her hair in one hand, tugs at it. 

“Peeta,” Katniss says again. She's so fixated on him. Only him. Maybe this isn't so surprising. She'd started the rebellion, accidentally, to save her sister. Maybe it was never so much about the issues but about protecting those she loved. She tries again, “Peeta, he wasn't happy in the Capitol?”

Tristan doesn't understand this question. There's another layer there, but he can't tell what she's actually asking. 

“No,” Tristan says. Of that he's fairly sure. He knows he didn't ever really see the actual Peeta, but he thinks he scratched close to the surface when they had walked the street together. People who are happy in the Capitol don't need to know how to avoid its cameras. 

“How could he be?” Tristan asks. Katniss looks at him – looks directly at him, and she's focused now. 

“There're people,” she says. “Chances.” 

Oh. Tristan gets it now. Even here, even stripped of everything and everybody she's ever cared about, she had thought that Peeta might have rebuilt his life. He had one of their daughters. He had been married off to a Capitolite, been given a bakery. He had the semblances of a normal life, as Tristan had observed.

“I don't think it meant anything without you,” Tristan answers honestly. He thinks back to Finnick, back in District Four – but without Annie. Johanna had predicted that he wouldn't survive without Annie. And maybe that's true. The Finnick Odair he had seen had been dedicated so something akin to vengeance. The network of spy Avoxes, his cryptic language, his collection of secrets – those are things that keep him going. But they're not going to make him happy.

(Quietly, he feels a pang, because he understands that from his own life too. He can do this. He can start a war to try and make the world a better place. But it's Rosie who makes him happy. Even now. Even with them on the wrong side of an impending battle, with her family trying to destroy him and his family, he loves her. He misses her. He aches for her.)

“Okay,” Katniss agrees softly. “Okay.”

…

Katniss sleeps outside. Tristan and Wren eventually fall asleep back with Gemma, their adrenaline crashing after the fight with the cat.

But Tristan wakes up with the knowledge that they have a new path to walk, new plans to make. They both sleep in later than they intend to. Gemma is already awake and gone by the time they stir. She and Katniss have wandered off together to search for what they can eat. Tristan takes that as a good sign. 

Wren is down by the lake, staring pensively at the water. 

“What's wrong?” he asks her as he settles in next to her.

“Do we start in District Four or not?” she asks him. He doesn't try to answer, not just yet, because he knows she's going to unwind her thoughts for him.

“If we can get to Finnick, we have the Avoxes. Vanora can get us the other victors. They'll have enough technology that I can patch into the Capitol and the other districts. _We_ can start making propos,” she explains. 

“But?” Tristan asks, because he's not seeing much of a downside.

“They'll be watching for us there,” Wren answers. “I don't know what gave us away last time. All of it? The trip to Four in specific? But they have to know that Four is one of the safest places for us. So they'll be watching Finnick and Vanora. We're only going to have one shot to declare our intentions. If we botch it, they'll crush it. But once we do … they might kill Peeta. Johanna. The rest of our siblings. But we can't be everywhere at once.” 

“I agree,” Tristan answers. “I think we should go to Four. It's the only place where we have sure allies.”

Wren nods, but she doesn't seem entirely convinced. He suspects it's just the nerves from realizing what they're going to do. He's feeling them himself this morning. It had been easy to talk big last night, but it's daytime now. Reality is setting in. It _would_ be easier to just hide in the woods for the rest of their lives, whatever that means. 

If they fail this time, there will be no coming back. They've seen what was done to the last sets of rebels – death or worse. That's what's waiting for them.

They hear Gemma and Katniss returning, so they head back to camp.

“Are we really leaving?” Gemma asks them right away.

“Yes,” Wren says. “We are.” She looks up at Katniss. “I think we should go to Four first.”

“Finnick is there?” Katniss asks. 

“Yes,” Wren answers. Katniss just nods but doesn't give an opinion, so they assume this is okay. They spend the rest of the day going over their plans – making calculations on if they have enough fuel in the train to make it to Four, when the best time to leave and arrive will be. They spend another night in the forest and pack up their supplies in the morning. They take only what they need – enough food to get them back to the train and to last them through their trip. It's a hard balance. They don't want to desert anything they might need, but at the same time, they don't want the extra burden once they're in Four. The bows come up with, as well as the axe, even though they're not inconspicuous at all. 

Their hike back toward the train is not nearly as bad as the one away from it. The three of them are far more accustomed to the outdoors now, callouses forming over where blisters had once been. Katniss comes and goes from them. Sometimes she wanders off without saying anything, but she always comes back, so they learn not to worry. 

Before Tristan even expects it, there the train is, shimmering silver in the sunlight.

“I was worried that they might have come and taken it,” Wren murmurs. Tristan looks over at her. That hasn't even occurred to him. 

“Why didn't they?” he asks.

“I don't know,” Wren admits. “Maybe they were worried that we had rigged it. Maybe they just figured that it wasn't worth the time. That we would die out here anyway. Maybe they rigged it as a trap.” She says that out loud and then doesn't dare say anything else out. Tristan's stomach twists back into knots. He remembers Katniss' comment around the fire – what they would do when the full power of the Capitol came down on them? That's the problem for now. They're four people up against an enemy who has nearly unlimited resources and is quite fond of playing mind games. There's no way they can sort out what the Capitol will do from move to move.

It's the same with their departure time. They have no idea how tracked the trains are, and they'll need to pass by the Capitol to get back to Four. They're going to leave in the middle of the night, which means they'll arrive in early morning. Less than ideal, because they might need to dodge Peacekeepers in Four. 

Wren climbs onto the train first, and Tristan passes their things up to her. Gemma and Katniss linger nearby while they do this. The two of them having been spending more time together, which Tristan is grateful for. He has no idea what they talk about, but as long as there's something, Tristan knows it will be okay. Katniss still seems aloof around them – especially Gemma, but she's obviously trying. 

“All right!” Wren calls. “We're ready!” 

They head back onto the train, and Tristan can't help but think about the last time they were here. It's odd to be back. Katniss looks even more unsteady. She clearly doesn't want to be on the train, but sits in the dining car, white knuckling one of the chairs. 

Tristan joins Wren in the driver's compartment.

“Hello my old friends,” she says playfully as she runs her hands over the controls. “Don't betray us now.”

“See you on the other side if we explode,” Tristan teases – a dark joke that gets a smirk from Wren. She takes a deep breath and fires the train up.

They don't explode.

The train purrs beneath them though, still running as smoothly as they left her.

“Next stop,” Wren declares. “District Four.”


	8. Chapter 8

Wren's driving hasn't improved much, but once they hit top speed, it doesn't matter much. She makes a few off-color jokes about possibly hitting another one of the trains – but they can see where the other three are, which, at least, gives them the benefit of knowing if a train is being sent after them. Of course, the Capitol has a lot more than that, which they have no way of knowing about.

Once they slide out of Twelve, Tristan falls asleep for a little bit. He wakes afterward, having no idea where they are. Wren quickly fills them in.

“We're getting ready to pass by the Capitol,” Wren whispers as if they're in danger of being overheard. They hold their collective breaths, so to say. But the night passes by them undisturbed. Still, they're all more on edge after they've passed the Capitol, knowing they can be pursued at any moment. 

Dawn breaks, the color beginning to streak the sky. Tristan's eyes feel gritty. His body pleads with him for rest, but there's no time for that.

“We're getting near,” Wren warns. Tristan nods. He heads back to relay this message to Katniss and Gemma, but they're asleep, sitting upright in the dining car. Gemma's head is leaned against Katniss' shoulder. He can't bring himself to wake them until they've actually arrived. 

He looks out the window as they slide into Four. The ocean is visible at first, and then the growing town again. He keeps watching – and then his stomach drops.

They thought they had slipped by the Capitol unnoticed. But that's not true. That's not true at all. Stationed in front of the arrival platform are more Peacekeepers than he's ever seen his life. Waiting for them.

They're fucked.

“Wren!” he shouts, waking up Katniss and Gemma in the process, who both violently start. 

“I see them!” she shouts back. 

“What do we do?” he asks.

Wren leaves her station for a moment, popping back to look out the window as well.

“We're going to have to fight,” Wren says gravely. “Wherever we go, they'll know before we get there. This will be the reception we'll get anywhere.”

“We don't stand a chance,” Tristan says. 

“If they kill us here, people will see,” Katniss says. “It won't go unnoticed.”

Tristan and Wren both go quiet. Is that the best they can hope for? A martyr's death to stir up the rest of the country? This certainly hadn't been what they had planned on. Tristan's brain wracks itself for another option – something they could make to throw out at the Peacekeepers beforehand? Is there another place they could stop? But they're coming up on the station and he can't think of anything. He notices, behind the line of Peacekeepers, there's a crowd. The people of District Four want to see what has drawn all of these forces.

“All right,” Tristan agrees although it pains him. “All right.” 

“Gemma,” Wren says. “Stay inside. Get underneath the table, and if you get a chance to run out, try and get lost in the crowd, okay? If you can get up to Victors' Village – it's up on the bluff near the beach – the victors there will help you, okay?”

“I want to fight too,” Gemma protests. She latches a hand onto Katniss' arm. “Please don't leave me behind!” 

But none of the three of them can condone bringing Gemma into this. Besides, they only have two bows and the rusted axe, which Tristan takes while the girls grab their arrows. The train has already significantly slowed down.

“I'll take the lead,” Katniss says. She notches an arrow in her bow, stands in front of the door that has yet to open. For the first time, Tristan sees her as who she used to be. Someone who was an inspiration to the rest of the country. Someone people were willing to follow into battle. She doesn't look like the crazy woman they found wandering the woods. She looks ready for battle, even in worn, ratty clothing, her hair unkempt. 

Tristan stands behind her, his grip tight on the axe. Wren is behind him, another arrow ready. Her breathing is loud in the small space. 

The train grinds to a halt. 

They can hear voices behind the door, the crackle of radios. 

He can't help but look once over at his shoulder, back at Wren – just one last time. He thinks back to when she had grabbed him on the street. She had knocked his world off its axis. She nods at him, trying to be reassuring. 

The door slides open. 

There's a Peacekeeper right there. His gun is up, leveled at them, almost directly parallel with Katniss' arrow. 

“Hey!” 

The shout comes from neither of them, but is amplified from somewhere to their right. Tristan blinks. (He knows that voice, doesn't he?)

“Hey!” comes the shout again, and it seems as if most of the crowd, even the Peacekeepers have turned toward that voice. “Do you know who's on that train? _Do you know who the Peacekeepers are about to slaughter_? Katniss Everdeen! _Our mockingjay_!” 

The Peacekeepers start shouting at Vanora to get down, to stop addressing the crowd. They redirect their guns. But as soon as they focus on her, the crowd also starts to yell, threatening to riot. Vanora keeps shouting over it all, her voice booming across the square. 

“And the children of victors – children that the Capitol _stole_. The Capitol has _lied_ to us about the rebellion, about the Hunger Games, about _everything_. There is no pride in killing children! Being a victor is a lie! It doesn't make you a hero. Our heroes are on that train. Are you going to let the Capitol kill them?” 

The last word has barely left Vanora's mouth when a gunshot rings out. From his place on the train, Tristan has no way of knowing if she's been shot – but the crowd goes wild immediately. They start screaming, pulling at Peacekeepers. Chaos descends. 

In front of him, Katniss lets an arrow fly. It finds its place in the chest of the Peacekeeper directly in front of her. He has no time to fire his gun. Tristan leaps forward, past Katniss, who is grabbing for another arrow. He wields the axe in an ungainly manner, but it doesn't matter. It gives Wren time to drop to her knees, grab the gun, and stand back up. Between the two of them, they gain enough berth to break through the initial ring of Peacekeepers. Katniss is right behind them – Gemma, holding the second bow that Wren dropped, alongside her. 

As soon as people in the crowd see them, they start trying to protect them. It's a weird sensation, being sheltered by other people. They lead them away from the train, toward the heart of the city. They're guided far enough along – and then there's Finnick. He spots them and motions frantically at them, trying to get them to come toward him. Wren races toward him. 

She's so intent on Finnick that she doesn't see the Peacekeeper moving at her. He rears back and hits her hard, in the side of her head, with the butt of his rifle. Wren drops immediately. 

All Tristan sees is that Peacekeeper. He runs on rage and adrenaline. He pulls back the axe without thinking about it and embeds it in the side of the Peacekeeper's neck. Blood spurts out everywhere, staining the white uniform red. Tristan stumbles backward, shocked at the sight of it. He's never fought someone before, not really, much less killed anyone. And this blow is most certainly fatal. He freezes. Right there, in the middle of the rioting crowd, where half of it is trying to kill them. 

“Tristan!” Gemma cries, and it's only the sound of her voice that spurs him back to life. He kneels, wraps an arm around Wren, who is still dazed, and pulls her to her feet. She tries to get her feet underneath her, but seems to struggle with it. He carries her as far as he can and is met quickly by Finnick, who slides his arm under her other side. 

He leads them through the streets, pulling them farther and farther away from the action. Every time it seems like a Peacekeeper is going to catch them, someone appears – out of a house, out of a shop – and guarantees their safe passage. They give the three-fingered salute. 

“The mockingjay lives!” rings throughout the city. 

It's a bizarre feeling, being at the center of this. Here they are. This is it. This is the start of the rebellion. This is the start of them reclaiming their country. (Or, but his mind tries not to give credence to this, not right now: This is the start of how they all die.)

When Tristan feels as if he can't run anymore, Finnick darts inside a house. At first, Tristan thinks it's been chosen at random – but the people there seem to know Finnick. He gestures at them – and the couple hastily pushes a table out of the way, roll up a rug. There's a hidden compartment in the floor. Most of it is filled with items, things that, Tristan realizes, are probably contraband. It'll be a tight fit for all of them, but they slid down there all the same. The trapdoor is closed, and the rug and table moved back over the top.

Tristan is breathing hard. He turns to Wren to see if she's okay, but Finnick is already looking, pulling aside Wren's hair with a gentle touch to check. Wren's eyes are closed. She's clearly still in pain.

“Finnick,” Katniss says suddenly, her voice hoarse, fraught with emotion. 

Finnick looks up and something softens in his expression. (How long has it been since they've seen each other, Tristan wonders. It sounded like they were separated while they were held by the Capitol. Has it been since they were on the squad that was captured? That has to be nearly 19 years ago.) 

Finnick lowers Wren carefully to the floor and Tristan sits down beside her. He can only assume that, given Finnick's reaction, that Wren will either be okay or there's nothing they can do for her.

Finnick closes the distance between himself and Katniss and catches her in a hug. She freezes up at first, her shoulders going high, as if she can't stand the touch, but then she wraps her arms around him as well. Her hands shake, her fingers gripping hard at his shirt. 

He pulls away and smiles down at her – a wry sort of smile, the kind that Tristan has to imagine he doesn't give much anymore. He holds up a finger to her, signals wait, and then begins to shuffle through the boxes around them as if looking for something. It doesn't take him long to find whatever it is. He surfaces, holding something in one hand, and presents it to Katniss. A sugar cube?

Katniss snorts and shakes her head at him.

“You're an ass,” she declares, but with a sort of easy fondness. There's a spark of her old self there, Tristan thinks. It's the first time she's ever said anything that didn't have a shaky sort of quality. 

After that, they just have to be still, to wait for the city to calm down. Wren leans into Tristan the entire time. It's the only sign that she gives of how much pain she's actually in. But he trusts that she'll be okay all the same. She's made of something indestructible to him. The idea of doing any of this without her is simply unthinkable. 

The noises from above come in ebbs and flows. It grows dark. And then, finally, comes three knocks. The table is moved, the rug is rolled up, and then the trap door is opened. Gemma is boosted up first, and then Tristan and Wren follow. Katniss and Finnick come last, Finnick leaning in to help pull Katniss up. 

Vanora stands in the middle of the room, looking pleased with herself. Her blonde hair is tousled, her clothes torn, and her arm in a bloody sling. Finnick moves toward her, his concern obvious even without saying anything.

“It was like they were trying to miss me,” Vanora says easily. “I'm okay.” Finnick doesn't seem satisfied with that, so Vanora says again, with more emphasis, “ _I'm okay_.” 

She looks past him and smiles at Tristan and Wren. Despite her injury, her enthusiasm is infectious. Tristan starts to relax, starts to realize exactly what they've done and what they've accomplished. 

“I've got in touch with the Avoxes,” Vanora says, starting to speak quickly. “They're getting in touch with the victors to let them know what's happened. I would give us maybe until morning until another wave of Peacekeepers is sent here. We need to make a move before then.” She focuses in on Wren. “I hear you're good with computers.” 

Wren nods. (Tristan sees her light up, electricity flickering through her veins. She's been pushing them through these acts of survival these last few weeks, but this is where she really excels. She's being offered the keys to her kingdom once again.)

“We should get started on propos,” Vanora says. “When we heard that you took the train, we started siphoning off fuel. We have enough that we get can around to all of the districts a few times. We'll need to keep you ahead of the Capitol's forces, but we want to get you back into the other districts – to show people allying with you. That this isn't a one-off chance – that the rebellion is really happening.”

“The first propos should be just of Katniss,” Wren says, feeding off of Vanora instantly. It's like these two are in a world of their own abruptly. “We can make them in style like the ones Thirteen were making during the war. But the message should be more authentic. We don't need anything stylized this time.”

Vanora smiles. 

But when Tristan glances over at Katniss, she looks overwhelmed. This is happening quickly. 

Katniss looks up at Finnick.

“Are you in this?” she asks him seriously, as if no one else is in the room. Finnick looks at the rest of them with an almost amused expression on his face but then he nods. 

None of them sleep much that night. 

Vanora and Wren lean in close to the computer they've managed to locate. They speak in a language all of their own, trading secrets back and forth. Finnick stays close to Katniss – who is being cleaned up, so to say. She's been given a shower, a proper one, and clean clothes, and now Gemma is working on brushing out her hair. She doesn't dare braid it.

Tristan finds himself at a little bit of a loss for what to do. He watches mostly, feeling strangely outside of himself. He wonders if this is how the first rebellion started, these little tremors that kept working themselves up; all of these people coming together in these strange ways. People who had no reason to be able to work together, but who had all been hurt by the Capitol. 

A little after midnight, Wren and Vanora are ready. Katniss sits by herself in front of the camera. She slouches, keeps her hands down in between her knees, clenched tightly together. She keeps looking back at Finnick. 

“At your own pace, Katniss,” Vanora says straightening behind Wren. She rests her arm against Wren's shoulder to steady herself. “Whenever you're ready.” 

Katniss looks at Finnick one last time and then tries to gather herself up. Her eyes are hard, but not without feeling. She's trying to be the hero, the leader they need in this moment. 

“This is Katniss Everdeen,” she says. (Her voice trembles on her own name, but she breathes, slows herself down even more.) “Alive and well in District Four, where a riot just took place. The Capitol has probably already lied to you about what has happened here. Because the Capitol is a place of _lies_ , violence, greed, and filth. They lied to you about what happened during the war. They steal and kill our children. And we're done with it.” 

The longer she talks, the stronger she gets. All of a sudden, the mockingjay is there again. Her eyes are still hard, but the fire is burning in her belly again.

“If we burn,” Katniss says. (Tristan feels goosebumps begin to rise on his arms.) “You burn with us.”

…

Tristan is a little more useful after that. After that, everything becomes how to get the hell out of dodge. He helps move the extra fuel to the train. Wren and Vanora go to work on making the train invisible – that is, how to keep the Capitol from tracking them while not disengaging the systems that let them track the other Capitol trains. 

He helps move food, water, supplies to the train. 

He works alongside Finnick, and he can't help but quietly watch him. This is the first time that he's seen his father interact with the world in general. Finnick may not be able to speak anymore, but the sort of love and respect District Four still holds for him is obvious. (Tristan likes that, he has to admit. He likes knowing that his father is a hero, that even if he's been sent back to his home in disgrace, that message hasn't entirely stuck. Snow had been working so hard at discrediting the rebels and the idea of rebellion itself. He didn't want to make martyrs out of them by killing all of them. But, Tristan thinks, by doing that he's accidentally made them even stronger. They've all shown their resilience, and, in turn, the idea of rebellion is made more resilient.

They've survived thing long. After nearly a hundred years of oppression and the Hunger Games, it's time to finish this.)

…

They slid through the districts in the days to come. Vanora and Wren run Katniss' first message on a loop, making sure that it gets out to as many districts as possible. They start to encode hidden layers of messages into the video, letting the districts know where they'll be next. They stop at each place, stay as they long as they dare. They take out Peacekeepers, hot spots of Capitol control. 

They avoid the Career districts for the time being, heading into Seven first. 

While there, Wren suggests that they – the stolen children of the victors – make the next set of propos. Their faces are known in the Capitol. They can be a double-edged weapon, strengthening the districts and striking a blow against the Capitol that even the victors can't manage. 

Because they're in Seven, Johanna Mason's home, it's decided that Wren should go first. 

The hour before she's supposed to film, she comes and finds him though.

“Do it with me,” she says. It's the only sign she gives that she's scared, intimidated of putting herself out to the country by herself. 

The making of this propos isn't hidden in anyone's basement, isn't done in the isolation of the train. They take to the stage in front of the Hall of Justice in the heart of District Seven. They show the contained Peacekeepers, the shipment of lumber that will be kept from the Capitol. They show that they're not only talking, they're starting to damage the Capitol in a tangible and economic sense. 

Vanora films this one as well, but Tristan and Wren are the only two up on the stage. Katniss, Finnick, and the other rebels and victors are scattered throughout the crowd. 

Tristan remains beside Wren as she leans into the microphone.

“My name is Wren Le Beau,” Wren says, her voice clear as she speaks. She holds herself steady, doesn't dare let her voice waver. “I know that doesn't mean much to you. But my parents are Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason. I was produced by the Capitol, and then taken away from my parents. I grew up believing I was a Capitol citizen.”

There's a wave of murmuring across the crowd – outrage and anger mixed together. They're trying to sort out what if, what Wren is saying is true, what she is to them. Because they've been seen around the districts, they came on the train that came to help them. But are they children of the rebellion or the Capitol? Are they a trick? 

Tristan reaches down and gently wraps his fingers around Wren's wrist, fortifying her.

“I'm not the only one,” Wren says, anger ringing out more strongly in her voice. “Tristan is Finnick and Annie Odair's son. Gemma is Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen's daughter. And across the Capitol, our brothers and sisters are still being lied to – still being held hostage by people who claim to be their families.” She names off the others in neat succession, and with every name, the crowd grows more indignant.

“We're here to say that it's time for the Capitol to stop taking from us,” Wren says, practically shouting into the microphone by this point. “It's time for the Capitol to understand that they can't just hurt us and expect us to thank them for that pain! The Hunger Games need to come to an end! The Snow monarchy has to come to an end! It's time for the Capitol to stop living in wealth and luxury while children in the districts starve to death. It doesn't take any level of intelligence to realize that this is _wrong_.”

…

They move to Three next. The crowds there are already waiting for them, their Peacekeepers deterred. Vanora and Wren meet with their leaders to boost the messages, give them information on how well-received both Katniss' and Wren's videos were.

“Tristan should go next,” Vanora says. But the truth is, Tristan isn't ready for that. He doesn't know if his own story is all that powerful. It feels like a pale shadow of Wren's. 

So Finnick and Vanora go next, together – Vanora neatly translating for Finnick, sharing his story from after the war, which bleeds into Vanora's own misadventures with being a victor. 

“I volunteered for the Hunger Games because I was told that was what I supposed to do,” Vanora says, simmering with pain in front of the camera. “I won the Hunger Games because I was told that was the best thing I could do with my life. As soon as I won, I was told that victors served the Capitol. I was sold for sex, because I was pretty, because I was a victor, and because I could make the Capitol more money.” She pauses, swallows. “And then I found out that this wasn't even anything new. It's been going on nearly as long as the games have. The world was told during the last rebellion, and that message was blocked and destroyed.

“It's time to unwind another Capitol lie. Killing children for sport is wrong. It's not a way to honor your district. And being a victor is not glorious. It's degrading. We are the foundation the Hunger Games was built on, and we're fighting the right enemy now.”

After she is finished, everyone gives her space, except for Wren. Wren heads up to Vanora and catches her in a warm hug.

…

While they're in Eight, the first real retaliation comes from the Capitol. Caesar Flickerman, who looks as if he hasn't aged at all in the last few decades, does an interview with Rye Slender. The Capitol makes it mandatory viewing, much like the Hunger Games. 

Their group, which has grown and grown with each district, gathers together in an auditorium in Eight to see how the Capitol is going to discredit all the messages they've been sending. 

Flickerman, done in a deep purple that is obviously supposed to be set the mood as somber, sits across from Rye. 

At 15, Rye looks much older. It's his build, Tristan suspects. He looks ridiculously strong, and, across from Flickerman, at utter ease in his own skin. He doesn't have any of the overdone makeup that's usually expected from the Capitol, and is just wearing a simple button-up shirt with a pair of khakis. He appears on stage without his parents, as if the Capitol is afraid to bring any more attention to the issue of Rye Slender's apparent paternity. Or maybe they just want everyone to think that whatever Rye is about to say really is his own thoughts. 

But Tristan thinks back to the fake videos Peeta Mellark had once shot with Flickerman. He expects that's much more in line with what they're about to watch.

“Thank you for joining us here tonight, Rye,” Flickerman says, as poised as he ever gets. His hands are steepled together, voice lacking much of its manic edge of energy. 

“My pleasure, Caesar,” Rye answers, flashing a brief smile toward the camera and the crowd.

“We've been hearing a lot of disturbing information circulating the airwaves lately,” Flickerman says, launching into the topic at hand. “And I believe you're here tonight to discuss some of the more audacious lies that have been coming from this small sect of radicals.”

Finnick motions to Vanora, signing something that makes her laugh. 

“What?” Tristan asks.

“They're not calling us rebels anymore,” Vanora leans in to say. “They don't want us to associate with what happened in the past.” 

When Tristan looks uncertain, Vanora continues: “It's a good thing. When we're making enough waves that they're addressing us.” 

Tristan doesn't know if that's actually a good thing or not. It feels dangerous, but the interview is still happening in front of him.

Rye smiles, one hand clapped on one of his ankles.

“That's right,” Rye answers amicably. “Tristan Aldjoy and Wren Le Beau publicly said they didn't believe their parents were actually their parents. And named off a couple of other people.”

“Yourself included,” Flickerman says, as if there's anybody who doesn't understand why Rye is here.

“Myself included,” Rye answers easily.

“We should clarify that we don't know what Tristan or Wren has been _made_ to say,” Flickerman continues, giving Rye the easy out.

“That's true, but I think they believe what they're saying,” Rye says seriously. There's a pause, a moment of silence. Flickerman doesn't say anything, gestures for Rye to go on.

“Well,” Rye says, and he's still smiling. It's unclear if he's going off script or not. In District Eight, they're all dead silent as well as they wait for Rye Slender to deliver his blow. 

“First off, we can't really dismiss how much they have to lose,” Rye says. “Wren was at the top of her class here. Especially good with technology, I think.”

Wren turns around to look at Tristan, wriggling her eyebrows.

“And Tristan Aldjoy,” Rye says. “I mean, c'mon, he was getting ready to marry Rosalind Snow.” 

Tristan could see the blow coming, but it still hurts all the same. The reminder of what he's lost. He can also feel how uncomfortable the atmosphere in this room is. Everyone seems to shift around him uneasily, caught between whether it's more awkward to stare at him or pointedly not look at him. Tristan stares resolutely forward, at the back of Wren's neck. He feels a hard flush climbing up the back of his neck.

(Not for the first time, he wonders where Rosie is at this moment. Probably not at this interview. If they knew that Rye was going to mention her by name in the interview, there's no way that they'd let her bet here.

Are they keeping her out of the spotlight to protect her as much as possible? To save her from the embarrassment of knowing that she almost married a rebel? Does she still believe in him? Or has she been swallowing these lies? Did she believe what Wren had said when they had gone on air together? 

His stomach hollows out when he realizes that they might stick her with Flickerman eventually – to cry prettily and tell the world what a terrible person he is. That would be worse, he's certain, than never seeing her again. Because the only way Eleanor would convince her to do that is if some part of emotion was real – if some part of her is poisoned against him.)

Flickerman hums thoughtfully, obviously not daring to give any comment on Rosie Snow's marriage that almost was.

“And me,” Rye says, and he's still talking with easy conversational charm, “My parents here have also given so many opportunities and chances. I've been lucky enough to wrestle for my school, and I'm hoping to continue doing that throughout college.”

“And may I just compliment you on your impeccable performance and sportsmanship,” Flickerman trills, fitting himself back in, tapping Rye on the knee for a moment. 

The crowd in the Capitol cheers just for a moment, happy to have something to celebrate in the face of so much serious discussion. Rye looks back out at the cry, throws up a hand, and beams at them. He waits until the applause dies down before continuing.

“So, I guess, what I'm saying is that any of us, when we say something, we know we have a lot to lose,” Rye says. “Tristan and Wren wouldn't say any of those things without knowing the consequences.”

“Yes,” Flickerman says. “I think we can all agree with that. But that doesn't change the fact that the information they've been spreading is wrong, even if they believe it. Isn't that true?”

Rye grows a little more serious, takes his time answering.

“After everything I've heard,” Rye answers, measured. “I can say with some of level of certainty that I am one of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark's children.”

In District Eight, you can hear a pin drop – but in the Capitol, the crowd begins to shout. They jeer Rye down, who still sits there, calmly, looking unperturbed at the chaos he has caused. 

Tristan's heart leaps into his throat, because he knows they've won something here. With the exception of Willow Snow, Rye should have been the most difficult to convince. But without coaxing him at all, he has come out on their side in the middle of the Capitol, with no one to protect him.

Flickerman is desperately trying to get Rye's mic or the cameras to cut, but Rye keeps speaking, loud, over the noise.

“In which case, I'm sure that Willow Snow is also,” Rye says. “And – in which case – I want to know where Peeta Mellark is.” His mic begins to cut out, and even though he's still talking, they can't hear what he's saying. Seconds later, the studio goes dark and then the cameras go black altogether. 

“Holy shit,” Wren says when she turns to face him.

“He's in danger,” Tristan says immediately. “If Peeta has gone missing, they're going to get rid of Rye too.”

“Can they?” Wren answers. “If they make Rye disappear, they're pretty much admitting what he said was true. They're saying he threatened them.” 

“I don't know,” Tristan says, feeling a headache start to throb in one temple. “They get people out of the way all the time.”

The entire room is starting to buzz. Tristan turns toward the back of the room, where Gemma and Katniss had been at the beginning, but they're gone by now. Finnick is signing quickly to Vanora, but she's shaking her head.

“We don't have the power to get to the Capitol right now,” she says. “We don't have the ability to save Peeta. A blow too soon, too early, will end this whole thing right away. We need to stay on track. We should still head to District 11 tomorrow.”

Finnick doesn't seem satisfied with that answer – few in the room are. The next two hours divulge into a heated discussion where they try to sort out what the best plan of action is based on what had just been shown to them. The truth is that the Capitol has hurt itself more through this mandatory viewing than they could have done. But the other truth they come to realize is that Vanora is right. They've only begun to chip away at the Capitol. They can't get there right now. 

It still sits uneasily with Tristan. He worries. Will Peeta, Rye, and Johanna still be alive by the time they make it there?

…

There's some talk on the way to Eleven about what the next propos should be. There's a brief discussion about having Gemma do one, but it's generally agreed that she's too young. They can't shelter her from most of what's happening, but they can keep the Capitol from focusing explicitly on her.

“Tristan,” Vanora presses. “It's time.” 

So, he agrees. Wren will shoot this one while Vanora asks him questions, hearkening back to Rye's video.

But they run into a snag early on.

“I'm not talking about Rosie,” Tristan says quietly but insistently.

“You _have_ to talk about Rosie,” Vanora answers. “That's going to be what everyone's interested in. How you got into a relationship with her and why you decided to do this anyway.” 

“Rosie's off limits,” Tristan says adamantly. “If you ask me any questions about her, I'm not answering them.”

They're on the verge of a full-out argument when Wren steps in. 

“What's wrong?” she asks, frowning.

“He won't talk about Rosalind Snow,” Vanora says.

“So?” Wren asks, nonplussed.

“That's what everyone's going to want to hear about,” Vanora repeats. “That's what Rye just mentioned during his interview with Flickerman.”

Wren crosses her arms in front of her.

“Isn't this whole thing about letting people do what they want this time?” Wren asks. “About speaking our truths?” 

Vanora doesn't answer, but doesn't look convinced.

“If he doesn't want to talk about Rosalind, he doesn't have to,” Wren persists. “He can talk about whatever he's comfortable with.”

In truth, he's surprised that Wren takes his side. She and Vanora have been so in tune with what they want to say and what direction the rebellion should take. This is the first actual disagreement he's heard them have. Vanora sighs but relents.

“Fine,” she says.

On the outskirts of District 11, Tristan allows himself to be filmed. He shares what he considers to be his story, recounting how Wren had told him the truth, how he had become more and more convinced about the lies his family had been telling. He shares how they met Finnick and what they had been like, his sorrow over knowing he'll never get to meet his mother. (He purposefully excludes Johanna or Peeta in the off chance that they can keep them safe.) 

They slid into District 11 around dawn, just after he finishes up his interview. 

After the hectic nature of their other arrivals, this one is almost freakishly quiet. 

Most of the people on their train are still asleep, so Tristan is the first to disembark. He looks around, looking for either the citizens of District 11 or the Peacekeepers. Neither is anywhere in sight. Wren follows him down and then Vanora. 

Tristan walks a few feet out into the open, cautious.

“Tristan!” Wren suddenly shrieks.

He looks back at her, over his shoulder, and sees a singular image: Vanora grabbing onto Wren, pulling her back while Wren throws herself forward, trying to get to him.

Then the bombs start to fall.


	9. Chapter 9

Tristan wakes up, aching.

He tries to sit up, but a hand immediately lands on his shoulder, keeping him in place. He looks up into Finnick's face – but the pain suddenly claws through his middle. He gasps, a hand hovering over his left-hand side. He's never felt this much pain before. He feels weak. 

Finnick gestures with his other hand for him to be still, so he relaxes back into the bed. Finnick sits back down, although he keeps one hand resting on Tristan's shoulder. Tristan wants to ask what's happened, what's wrong with him, but he doesn't know enough of the hand signs to manage to follow Finnick. He can sense the same frustration in Finnick. They sit there, together, in silence. 

The hall around them is packed full of people who have all been injured. A few healers are making rounds from person to person. Finnick manages to flag one down, gesturing to Tristan. The woman, her hair full of grey, smiles kindly at him as she comes to his side.

“How're you feeling?” she asks.

“Not great,” he answers. 

“You took some shrapnel to your side,” the woman explains. “It didn't hit anything internally. You just needed some stitches. As long as you don't get an infection, you should be okay.” 

“Vanora? Wren?” Tristan asks with a high note of worry. He looks over at Finnick. Finnick shakes his head at him and gives him an 'OK' sign. 

“Hold on,” the nurse says. She goes across the room and retrieves a wide-shouldered man with dark skin and a bandaged arm. Finnick looks up at him and starts gesturing.

“They've gone ahead,” the man deciphers. “To the next district. They didn't want to risk moving you while you were injured.”

Tristan feels a strange sinking sensation. 

“They left us behind?” 

“We'll catch up when you're better,” the man continues. “You need to focus on getting better for now.”

How? How will they catch up? If they've taken the train with them, that seems impossible. He knows they were just trying to take of him, but he can't help but feel disappointed. 

“You're the Odairs, right?” the man asks suddenly, seeming almost shy. Finnick looks up, pauses, and then nods.

“I don't know if you'd remember my sister,” he says. “She fought alongside Katniss in the 74th Hunger Games. Rue?”

Finnick sobers immediately. He nods, gets to his feet, and holds out his hand for the man to shake. 

“I'm Bay,” he says intently, and then nods down the line at a man in another bed. “That's my brother, Jesse. Two more of our siblings went along with Katniss when she came. We're real glad to meet you. To have this opportunity to fight.” 

Finnick nods again, gestures quickly with his hand. 

“If you need anything else, please ask,” Bay says. “We want to help out however we can.”

That feeling doesn't change any in the days he and Finnick are stuck in the makeshift hospital. He proves slow to heal. He tires easily. They receive plenty of reports of what's happening across the country – where Katniss, Vanora, and Wren have arrived, the numbers that are still pouring in. Bay and Jesse make sure of that. The districts that the Capitol has started to bomb in the hopes of preventing them from moving forward any further. 

It's the only source of distraction. 

In the hours in between, Finnick starts to teach him the hand gestures he uses to communicate. He struggles with it, but it's a goal, and Tristan appreciates that. More importantly, he really does want to be able to communicate with his father without the additional party in the middle. After awhile, though, he gets good enough that they can at least have simple conversations. 

Finally, word comes through the grapevine: They're going to make a move on the Capitol. It's time. The train is filled with hundred who have from the districts. The Avoxes in the Capitol are mobilized, ready. Even One and Two – with the help of victors who have been sold over time – are behind them. They've begun to accrue on the borders of the Capitol. 

The Capitol is still desperately bombing, but with every bomb they drop, they convince more and more citizens of Panem to turn against them. 

This is their time.

_We need to go_ , Tristan signs to Finnick. He knows of one more group that can help this rebellion. 

…

They're given a salvaged Peacekeeper vehicle to take across the country. A few of the others who were injured but want to fight come along with, including both of Rue's brothers.

(Tristan had never heard that story, another one of the facts kept away in their rewritten history. Once they were able to communicate well enough, Finnick had told him – that there had been another little girl who Katniss had tried – and failed – to save. Another little girl who the districts had decided was too much mourn. That her death had sent the first tremors through District 11.)

It takes days to slip along the districts to District One, where they're smuggled across the border into terrain that's technically designated as the Capitol. 

He returns to the spit of land with only a facility wrapped in barbed wire. With all the focus on Katniss and the train, this place is lightly guarded. They have the element of surprise, and it takes almost nothing to take out the two guards on the outside, the five on the inside. 

They start unlocking the doors, freeing soldiers, the so-called patients of the Capitol. Finnick is right beside Tristan the entire time. They search for a single name while their compatriots from District 11 start to explain to the freed patients who they are and what's happening. There are a few who are generally too unwell to leave this facility. So they stay, along with a couple of the healers they've brought from District 11 – to receive real care and compassion. 

(There are also a few who are still resilient, who still feel they owe more to the Capitol. And those, they have to lock up.)

But Finnick is right in front of her door when it unlocks. 

Johanna is on the other side, already standing up. Her shoulders are tight, tense, and her eyes are wary. She stares at the two of them as if she expects them to disappear at any minute – a trick. She still thinks this is a trap despite all the other “patients” who are wandering the halls and despite the fact that Tristan and Wren have been here before.

She mouths Finnick's name, but no sound leaves her lips.

She tries again.

“Finnick,” she says, her voice still breaking.

Finnick closes the distance between the two of them, wraps his arms tightly around her. She's enveloped by him, and Tristan is afraid for a minute, because Johanna seems so small compared to Finnick. But she's right there with him, her fingers digging hard into his shoulders.

Tristan gives them a little bit of space. He lingers on the outside of the cell, watching as people walk out into the hallway, dazed. They'd never thought they'd be free again. 

Standing there in that moment, Tristan can't help but wonder how many others had disappeared over the years. How many people had been silenced by Snow's regime and the control of the Capitol? Whose names would they never know? Whose stories would they never hear? How many people who would have been important to the world had been silenced? Who had never grown up because they had starved to death out in the districts? Who had never been able to find their calling because they had been shoved into mines or out into the forests? Tristan can't help but feel this frustration with the world. Why couldn't they just leave each other alone? Why couldn't they just inherently want others to succeed? Why was there this pervasive need to destroy other human beings just for the sake of destroying them?

He doesn't have too much to linger in the dark thoughts that momentarily swamp him.

In front of him, Johanna withdraws from Finnick.

“What did he do to you?” Johanna asks, her voice growing louder, horror beginning to permeate it.

Tristan steps forward. After all, there's no reason Johanna should know the hand signals that Finnick uses to communicate. Finnick's gaze drops on him and he smiles at him in a grateful way. He moves his hands away from Johanna so that Tristan can see them. 

Tristan reads the message clearly and then pauses.

“Really?” he asks. Finnick grins again and then nods.

“He says he looks better than you do,” Tristan says, a little embarrassed to be delivering that message to Johanna.

“You're still an asshole,” Johanna says tartly – but with obvious fondness. She balls one hand and half-heartedly punches Finnick in the shoulder. 

“Where is she?” Johanna asks suddenly, refocusing. She looks past Finnick and Tristan and toward the hallway. Tristan doesn't need to ask to know that she's talking about Wren. 

“She's already in the Capitol,” Tristan admits. 

“What?” Johanna bites off. Fear, immediately followed by anger, shine in her eyes. She looks back and forth between the two of them, as if she can't understand how they would have let Wren go to the Capitol. 

“She's safe,” Tristan says hastily. Well, as safe as any of them ever are these days. But she knows that if Wren had been killed, it would have been shown all over the Capitol. That had been Snow's tactic during the first war, hadn't it? He'd been claiming that the rebels were dead long before they were. So, if Eleanor hasn't said anything, Katniss, Wren, and the others have to be okay. 

Tristan hopes.

“That's why we're here,” Tristan continues. “We're going to help them.” 

“You've met her?” Johanna asks, guarded, looking back at Finnick. Finnick nods.

“She's not bad that one,” Johanna says. 

Tristan feels awkward for being here for this as well. Wren most certainly wasn't planned by the two of them. They have the feel of a brother and a sister and he can't imagine what it's like for the two of them to know they have a kid now – one they've never been able to discuss, who has manifested herself in this incredibly strong and present way. 

“I'm glad that all those Odair genes didn't dumb her down too much,” Johanna says, grinning at him. Finnick shakes his head, but it's in a fond way.

“I don't know how the hell I'm going to use to you not running your smartass mouth all the time,” Johanna says with a sigh. “I guess I'll have to get used to this.” She moves her hands around without purpose and ends by flipping him both her middle fingers.

…

They gather their little group together, get them changed into proper clothes, and then wait for the train to come. 

There is only a handful of Peacekeepers on board when the train arrives. (Tristan is surprised at this at first, but then takes it as a good sign. Most of the Peacekeepers have probably been pulled back to the Capitol – and if this few are coming out to where a high-profile target is, that means they're spread fairly thin.)

He expects there to be some kind of fight to subdue them anyway – and this is where the even greater surprise comes. As soon as the Peacekeepers realize what's going on, they surrender. No fight. They agree to hand over the train. Their only condition is that the rebels have to _say_ they fought. (They are from districts, too, Tristan remembers. They're not Capitolites, even if they're sworn to protect the Capitol. They must have families, too, back in Two, who would be in danger if the Peacekeepers failed in their duty. 

The districts are always distracted with each other, with who has more, who has the advantage. For the first time, Tristan understands the inequality across the districts. Why some of them are Careers and why some of them are ground into the dirt. If Twelve is striving to beat One and Two – or trying to be like them – who is watching the Capitol?)

When they're on the train speeding toward the Capitol, he mentions that to Finnick.

_Two eventually sided with the rebels last time. It's not that big of a surprise that some of them still remember that _, Finnick tells him. _A lot of them probably paid the price for that.___

__“What?” Tristan asks, unable to hide his surprise. He'd never heard that Two had joined the rebels the last time. (Of course, he realizes, he needs to stop believing everything that he has been taught and learned while in the Capitol. But it's hard to suss out what the world actually is.)_ _

___They gave up the Nut_ , Finnick answers. _That's how we got into the Capitol.__ _

__Tristan digests this silently. He'd always thought that the rebellion was Twelve and Thirteen, maybe a little bit of help from Eleven and the outlying districts. But then again, just all the victors being together is proof that it was something more. His parents had been from Four. They had been there. And the reception in the districts has always been more welcoming than he would expect. The memory of what has been done to them, through the Dark Days, the Hunger Games, and the war runs deep. No one is forgetting except for the people in the Capitol._ _

__And that's precisely part of the problem. What is really happening is never being conveyed to the Capitol – who are waited on by Avoxes, protected by Peacekeepers, whose goods are being shipped into the Capitol. They can't see the structures of inequality that their pampered lives have been built upon. Only a few can see the whole picture, and they're dedicated to maintaining those structures._ _

__It's a reminder that they have a lot to burn down to rebuild._ _

__But, Tristan thinks, they need to remember not to burn down the whole world in the process._ _

__…_ _

__He stays awake throughout the whole ride, although Finnick and Johanna take time to sleep in real beds. Tristan is alone when they slide into the Capitol._ _

__His home – and how can he think of it as anything else? It's the place where he was born, where he grew up, where he discovered the truth – is not the same as he left it. It is a dark place. It's strange to see the city without its gleaming lights, its constant buzz of activity. But the streets are silent. The city is not war-ravaged, not yet, but it bears the mark of change all the same._ _

__He picks out spots he knows in the dark: the tower that bears the Aldjoy name, his elementary school, the shop where Rosie had picked out her wedding dress. (His heart is a treacherous thing, and he can feel his pulse pick up at the thought of her. The distance between them is closed. She is somewhere in this city. But he doesn't know where. He doesn't know what she thinks of him. It's a thought he's had at least once a day since he was taken from her. It's one that he tries to quickly tamp down now, because the hurt of it still thrums through him, too strong to be contained.)_ _

__The rest of the train starts to wake up, preparing for their departure. They ransack the train the same that he, Wren, and Gemma had once done. They take any supplies that can be useful, aware they need to link up with the rest of the rebels. Bay has intel on their position, but it's old. Wren and the others may have advanced past that point by now._ _

__The station is quiet when they disembark._ _

__Bay cuts the fuel lines to the train when they leave. If the Capitol wants to reuse it, they're going to have to fix it first._ _

__It also means that they're trapped here. There will be no retreat. They will either claim the Capitol or they will die in the streets._ _

__Tristan and Bay lead their pack, with Finnick and Johanna nearby. Bay knows where they're supposed to go, but Tristan knows the streets of the city, because it's a part of him. He knows how to get there the fastest, how to get there without being seen. He's aware of Finnick's discomfort about being back here, and it bleeds into him. He's never heard the city this quiet, and it sets him on edge. He expects an attack at every corner. The lack of one with each step makes it worse somehow. As if it would just be better for it to get over and done with._ _

__They hit a courtyard and suddenly Finnick halts him._ _

__He shakes his head. He doesn't want to go through this way._ _

__“We'll have to circle back five blocks if we don't go through,” Tristan answers him softly. “This is the fastest way through.”_ _

__“It's been quiet so far, Finnick,” Bay adds. “We should just get through this as quick as we can. We should be near where the others are.”_ _

__Finnick looks warily at the enclosed space. He glances down at Johanna. Her jaw is clenched and she chances a glance up at him. She just shrugs. Whatever that means seems to be enough for Finnick. Tristan takes a few careful steps into the courtyard. He glances up at all the windows – they could hide any number of threats, but the city is still asleep, unaware of them, it seems._ _

__They're nearly on the other side when, in front of Tristan, giant doors begin to creak closed._ _

__“Run!” Bay barks out. Tristan does. The entire group careens wildly forward, but they don't make it. The heavy doors grind to a shut in front of them. Tristan presses his hands against them instantly, but he already knows none of them are going to be able to get them open with mere human strength. Finnick was right. They've walked into a trap._ _

__Tristan twists back around, waiting for the inevitable._ _

__Peacekeepers spill in through the other side. Even in the bleak darkness, their uniforms gleam, almost glowing, in the moonlight. Their weapons are already raised, zeroed in on their small party._ _

__Tristan pushes his way back to the front of the group. He feels Finnick reach for him, to hold him back, but he pulls away. His hands are raised forward, palms splayed to show that he doesn't have a weapon._ _

__“People from District Two helped us get here,” Tristan shouts. He can hear his heart pounding his ears. “Peacekeepers. Just like you.” Is this breaking his word? He doesn't know. “I know you have families to protect. That you might feel like it's your responsibility to guard the Capitol.” He edges slowly forward as he speaks, aware of the way all those are pointed his chest. Fear thrums through him headily. He doesn't know how he finds the power to keep walking forward._ _

__“We want to make things better for your families. To give them chances. To not be considered second best just because of where they were born.” Tristan licks his lips nervously, his eyes scanning the row of soldiers in front of him. He has no idea if his words are making any difference. He can't even see the men's faces. But they haven't shot him so far so he takes that to be a good sign._ _

__“I'm sure that some of you had to have dreams of being something other than a Peacekeeper once. Of doing something other than serving the Capitol or training for the Hunger Games.”_ _

__He takes one more wary step forward. He's standing directly in front of the Peacekeepers._ _

__“So join us,” Tristan says. He moves, still slowly, to try and bring the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest down. The Peacekeeper lets it drift downward – and then immediately brings it up. He bashes the butt of it against Tristan's temple. His world blares red for a dizzying instant and he immediately drops down to the ground. He dimly feels the cold barrel level with his temple._ _

__“Don't!” someone screams. “Don't shoot!”_ _

__Tristan waits for the oblivion anyway._ _

__But then the gun disappears. Someone wraps her arms around him and pulls him gingerly back up to his feet. He tries his best to stand, but he's disorientated, his head pulsing with pain. He opens his eyes. For a moment, he can't trust them. He thinks the blow to his head must have knocked something loose._ _

__Standing in front of him is Rosalind Snow._ _

__She's dressed in what looks like her pajamas, her tousled hair piled on top of her head. She's not wearing any makeup, and yet, she looks perfect. She looks like everything Tristan has missed all these weeks. Too good to be real._ _

__He sways, and she tightens one arm around him. Her other hand flutters by the bump on his head._ _

__“I thought you were dead,” she whispers. “They showed this footage of you in District 11. Hit by a bomb.”_ _

__“I'm here,” he says. “I'm here.”_ _

__She closes the distance between them, although she's still helping him stand. She hugs him hard, burying her face against the side of his neck. She shakes against him. He forgets about the fact that they're standing in the middle of the Capitol, exposed. Peacekeepers and rebels are both watching them, and he doesn't care. He hugs her back, buries his face in her hair. If this part is a trap, too, he can live with it. If this is the last minute he's going to be alive, he can't ask for anything more._ _

__In the next breath, Rosie is yanked away from him._ _

__He stumbles, his eyes flipping back open. Johanna holds Rosie by a handful of her hair. He's aware, vaguely, of every Peacekeeper gun trained back on them._ _

__“Let her go!” Tristan shouts, but even as the words leave his mouth, he darts forward. He pushes Johanna way from Rosie with more force than he intended. Johanna stumbles away. Her eyes flash dark. She recoils._ _

__“You can't be both,” she snaps, as Tristan gathers Rosie back up in his arms. “Either you're one of them,” She throws a hand out toward the sea of Peacekeepers, “Or you're one of _us_.”_ _

__“I _am_ both,” Tristan shouts back. “No matter how much you might not like it.”_ _

__Johanna surges forward again, and Tristan isn't sure what she'll do. Before she reaches them, though, Finnick steps in, presses a gentle hand against her chest to stop her. He's not looking at her or Tristan and Rosie though. His gaze is forward, toward the lines of Peacekeepers._ _

__Belatedly, Tristan turns._ _

__The head Peacekeeper has his helmet off, his gun hanging at his side._ _

__“We'll follow them,” the Peacekeeper says, nodding toward Rosie and Tristan. “Because we're both too.” He pauses. “We're not going to destroy the Capitol. But the districts can stand to gain a little more.”_ _

__Tristan stares in surprise. He feels Rosie reach down and take his hand._ _

__“Thank you,” she says gently, nodding at the Peacekeepers._ _

__At his other side, Johanna scoffs. When Tristan turns to look at her, Finnick signals at him. Tristan nods._ _

__“Come with me,” he says quietly to Rosie. He breaks away from the crowd, following Finnick and Johanna. Jesse takes over, stepping forward to converse with their new Peacekeeper allies. Bay is right behind Tristan and Rosie. They head into the emptied apartment buildings, although they don't go far. They stop inside the atrium. Johanna leans up against the counter, looking irritated. She doesn't let her guard down for a moment. Her gaze is pinned on Rosie. She's talking low and fast at Finnick, but Tristan can't catch what she's saying._ _

__Finnick starts to answer her, but Johanna slaps his hands down._ _

__“You know I don't understand that,” she hisses at him._ _

__Tristan knows that he should head over to them, but he lingers with Rosie._ _

__“Are you okay?” he asks her softly, running a hand over her arm. Some part of him still can't believe she's here. He feels as if she might evaporate at any moment, that this might be some kind of more dangerous trap. He wonders if this is how Finnick, Johanna, Katniss felt when they first showed up claiming to know the truth._ _

__Rosie's gaze lingers on Johanna and Finnick, but she eventually drags it back to Tristan. She smiles at him and raises one hand to press it against his face._ _

__“I'm fine,” she says. “I'm so happy you're back. “And I'm _so_ sorry that I didn't help you when you were being arrested. I didn't understand what was happening at the time.”_ _

__“No,” Tristan says. He raises her hand to press a kiss to it. “Don't apologize. How could you have known?”_ _

__“Yes,” Johanna sneers. “How could a member of Snow's _family_ be held accountable for the atrocities he's committed? That _your sister_ has committed in the family name now, is it?” _ _

__“Johanna,” Tristan says sharply, turning to face her. “She's here now. She's with us. She's helping us. If I'm here, she's here. And that's how it is.”_ _

__Johanna throws her arms up, looking skyward._ _

__“That is _your_ son,” Johanna says sharply to Finnick. “That is _Annie's_ son, willing to lay down his life for a _Snow_. Is there any worse trick after this?”_ _

__Finnick doesn't answer at first. He's just watching Johanna. He looks a little cornered._ _

__But finally: _He came to the truth in spite of his love for her. And she came to the truth through him. Why would I fault them for that? If Annie and I were known for anything, wasn't it that? Loving each other in spite of our differences, and letting our love heal our hurts?__ _

__He looks at Johanna while he answers, but Tristan is the obvious recipient of the message. He doesn't translate it for Johanna, but she seems to get the gist of it from Finnick's expression. She scoffs again, but then lets it go._ _

__“Rosie,” Tristan says gently. “This is Finnick Odair. My dad.”_ _

__Finnick smiles at her, takes her hand in between his, and presses a kiss to the back of her hand._ _

__“It's nice to meet you,” Rosie answers, suddenly becoming shy._ _

__When this moment passes, Bay finally takes command of the situation._ _

__“What can you tell us about what's been happening in the Capitol?” he asks Rosie._ _

__“Um,” she falters again, becoming shyer at all the attention that has been foisted upon her. “Peeta was brought to the Presidential Mansion not long after Tristan was arrested. As far as I know, he's still there and hasn't been moved. Rye was taken after his interview.” She looks back at Tristan. “And Willow. After that, she kept Willow inside the mansion. I haven't been allowed to see her. And that's when I knew everything that was happening was true. That everyone had been lying about you.” She trails off for a moment, and Tristan reaches down to squeeze her hand._ _

__The touch seems to remind her that they're in a room full of people. She flushes and clears her throat._ _

__“I've been trying to keep the Peacekeepers from attacking the rebels who have arrived,” Rosie says finally. “I think, at best, I've been able to create some confusion, but most are still obeying Eleanor, and she's kept those who are the most loyal to her near the mansion. We won't be able to sway them through talk._ _

__“But I'm sure that if I can just talk to Eleanor, we can come to some sort of treaty. We can create an understanding of some sort. Some sort of concession to the districts.”_ _

__With a sinking heart, Tristan realizes that while Rosie might be more on their side than not, she doesn't understand how far this is going to have to go._ _

__“Eleanor's not going to be able to remain as president,” Tristan tells her gently. That's going to be the first of the concessions, he thinks._ _

__“Tris, you can't kill her,” Rosie begs. “She's my sister. You _know_ her. You _know_ that my family never meant for anything bad to happen.”_ _

__“And you know that's not the truth anymore,” Tristan tells her, he voice still as light as he can make it. It doesn't really lessen the sting of the words any._ _

__“What if I can get her to surrender?” Rosie pleads._ _

__The truth is that he doesn't think Eleanor will surrender. She's been crafted to be Coriolanus Snow. That heritage doesn't allow for surrender. He doesn't know which is crueler: to pretend that is an option or to make her face the truth once again._ _

__“If your sister agrees to our terms, there's no reason we can't show mercy,” Bay answers calmly. Rosie looks at him, flashes a sad smile. But Tristan can hear it in Bay's voice all that same: No one in this room expects Eleanor Snow to meet their demands._ _

__All the same, Bay flips the discussion deftly._ _

__“This is where we last heard Katniss Everdeen and the others were.” He displays the map to Rosie. “Do you know if that's true?”_ _

__“They're closer to the mansion,” Rosie answers, adjusting the placement of his finger. “All of our resources are near there now. They haven't been able to break through.”_ _

__“Where are the pods?” Johanna asks._ _

__“Pods?” Rosie asks._ _

__“Last time we came through here, your grandfather had a network of fucked-up weapons and mutts to take us out.” She yanks Finnick over and shows off a faded scar that tears along his shoulder and his neck. Finnick sighs and pulls away to adjust his shirt once again._ _

__Rosie flushes, obviously embarrassed by the sight of the wound._ _

__“Oh,” she says. “Too many people in the Capitol were against putting weapons in the streets again. Too many citizens were killed accidentally.”_ _

__“So, it's just Peacekeepers?” Johanna presses._ _

__“As far as I know,” Rosie says._ _

__There's a moment of silence, because they all know there could be a sizable gap between what Rosie knows and what's actually happening._ _

__“So we just need to fight through,” Johanna says insistently, slapping her own hand down where the mansion is on the map. “How many Peacekeepers are left around the mansion.”_ _

__“I don't know,” Rosie admits. “At least two hundred?”_ _

__No one says anything for a moment. That's far more than their numbers. Tristan pretends to look at the map, but really, he's thinking back to all the trips he's taken to the mansion, particularly the one when he asked for Rosie's hand._ _

__“Is anyone still getting in and out of the mansion?” he asks her._ _

__“No,” Rosie says, shaking her head. “Some people from the Capitol have retreated there, but I don't think any more are being allowed to enter now.”_ _

__Tristan hums thoughtfully._ _

__“What about the servants?” he asks._ _

__“What?”_ _

__“The servants,” Tristan says again. “The Avoxes. Are they being allowed to come and go? To bring supplies to and from the mansion?”_ _

__“I – don't know?” Rosie sounds perplexed, and he knows it's because she, like the rest of them, have never paid attention to the Avoxes who are in the room._ _

__“We could watch,” Tristan says, looking up at Bay, Johanna, and Finnick. “And if that's happening, a handful of us could disguise ourselves, get into the mansion, make Eleanor surrender. We wouldn't have to fight our way through the Peacekeepers at all. We could take the Presidential Mansion and the Capitol without any further bloodshed.”_ _

__Everyone pauses. Johanna and Finnick look at each other again._ _

__“It's not a bad plan,” Johanna allows._ _

__Bay nods. “We need to meet up with the others first,” he adds._ _

__They trail out of their makeshift meeting room and back out into the courtyard where their team has mingled with the Peacekeepers._ _

__Rosie grabs his hand before he makes it all the way outside, halting him. She presses her hands to his face and kisses him hard. He kisses her back with the same fervor, trying to relay everything he's felt over the last few weeks – how afraid he had been, how he'd thought he'd never see her again, how having her now means more than anything else._ _

__They break the kiss only when they have to leave. She presses her forehead against his, and they breathe._ _

__“We're going to survive this together,” she tells him softly._ _


	10. Chapter 10

The help of the Peacekeepers makes it a lot easier to slide through the rest of the city. They're not ambushed again. Dawn is just beginning to crest on the horizon when they reach the building where they've been told Katniss and the others are holed up. 

As soon as Tristan heads up the walk toward the door, it flings open. Wren is there in an instant. Someone from inside shouts at her to hold her position, but she flies toward him all the same. She wraps her arms around him, grabs him so hard that the air is knocked from Tristan's lungs. 

“You're okay,” she says into his neck, with more emotion than he would have really expected. For the first time, he realizes how much leaving him behind must have shaken her. 

“I'm okay,” he answers, quietly amused. Wren pulls back just enough to look at him, as if she doesn't exactly trust the verbal answer. She yanks up his shirt and looks at the wound – which is mostly healed by now. He doesn't know if she has any idea what she's looking at, but she seems to come to the conclusion that he actually is okay.

“Give him room to breathe, Rey,” Vanora says from where she's appeared behind Wren. She looks a little mussed, as if she's just been woken up, but she smiles when she sees Tristan and leans in to hug him as well.

“Welcome back,” she greets him.

_Rey_? he mouths to Wren. She flicks him off in counterpoint. The moment doesn't last though, because her gaze finally moves to Rosie. She pauses, openly.

“Rosalind,” she says stiffly, obviously not sure how she's supposed to react. Her eyes dart back to Tristan, as if waiting for an explanation. 

The reunion is cut short though, because they're all ushered inside for their own safety – and besides that, Wren realizes that Johanna is part of their group and goes to join her immediately. Most of Wren and Vanora's group is still asleep, and the rest of them are led toward the remaining rooms. Blankets and mats are spread out on the floor, but most of them end up without anything. Tristan is exhausted, though, and it doesn't matter much.

Rosie curls up against him, her head on his shoulder. He falls asleep to the sound of her quiet breathing. It's the safest he's felt in weeks.

…

They conjoin mid-day: him, Finnick, Johanna, Katniss, Wren, Bay, Rosie, and Vanora, alongside a few of the other leaders from the districts and the head Peacekeepers. They confirm what Tristan had suspected: Avoxes are still being allowed to move to and from the mansion as long as they're accompanied by Peacekeepers. The people inside aren't expected to live without their luxuries. 

They have Peacekeepers on their side, though, which means that there's no reason Tristan's plan shouldn't work. The only unknowns are whether or not anyone will figure out that the Peacekeepers have flipped sides and who will go inside. They also need to figure out where to get Avox masks from, but they trust those will hide their identities well enough until they're in.

The first part they'll have to risk, although the head Peacekeeper says the sooner they move the better on that. As for the masks, Vanora has already begun to contact her network of stylists. 

Who will go in is a little trickier. They all agree, without discussing it, that Rosie has to go – that she might convince peaceful surrenders. Tristan also suspects they might want to use her as leverage. Which means that he insists on going as well.

Katniss is another given, without discussion. After a little more discussion, it's decided that Finnick and Wren would be helpful to have as well. Finnick dares to make the suggestion that Johanna should stay behind, which she instantly sneers down.

“I'm not being left behind again, thanks,” she snaps. (No one dares to argue with her.) 

Gemma is never discussed. She's too young. Bay and Vanora agree to stay behind to make sure everything goes smoothly – and to come up with alternatives if things don't go well. So this is their group: him, Rosie, Wren, Finnick, Katniss, and Johanna. Three Capitol kids, three former victors and rebels. 

The Avox masks arrive within the hour. A group of Avoxes is scheduled to arrive right before dinner, so they decide to be that group.

The six of them set about changing into the new uniforms. Tristan and Rosie help each other, and he's hit by how strange this all feels, by how close they are to the end. At least for them. Either this is going to work or it isn't. If they succeed, they're going to finish a chapter in Panem. If they don't, they'll all most certainly be killed – except, perhaps, Rosie.

Vanora slips upstairs and helps Wren with her mask. Tristan doesn't miss the way that Wren's hands shake. Vanora holds them gently until they still. She presses a kiss to Wren's cheek before she fixes the mask on her face.

Johanna gets herself dressed, but turns to help Finnick. (He doesn't seem flustered in the ways that Tristan can read about wearing the mask, but Johanna is more gentle with him now, so maybe he is scared. Tristan hadn't considered that before. Maybe he has asked the impossible of his father. He's an Avox, yes, but he hasn't had to live like many of the others have.) 

Katniss stands by herself in the corner, dresses without help or comment. 

Tristan feels like there's so much to be said in this room. He feels he should say something to Rosie, to Finnick, to Wren. He's afraid he's going to lose them again in the minutes and hours to come. But no words come to his lips – and then there's no time. They're ushered down the steps and outside where the Peacekeepers are waiting for them. They load into one of the Peacekeeper vehicles. Tristan and Rosie grip each other's hands on the short drive to the Presidential Mansion.

As promised, a legion of Peacekeepers is outside the gates, alert. They slide right past, toward the back entrance. No one even looks twice at them. 

The Peacekeepers have to show identification three times before they reach the actual house. Each time, they all hold their collective breaths. But no one stops them. They trod onward. The security becomes a little more with each checkpoint. 

They're unloaded at the servants' entrance to the house. The Peacekeepers wordlessly hand off the guns they've managed to maintain; other than that, Katniss carries one of her handcrafted bows. Wren has the other. 

Then they're on their own. 

The house creaks silently around them as they let themselves in. They'd all agreed that it would be fastest and most effective to get to Eleanor first. Rosie leads the way, knowing the places in the house where Eleanor is mostly likely to frequent. Tristan stays near her the entire time. 

After being away from the Capitol, it's strange to realize how massive this house actually is. It's a labyrinth of rooms. Room after room that has no purpose. They just hold items – book, artwork, statues, paintings. The rooms exist to display wealth and power, and after being in the outlying districts, it's amazing that this system of inherent power difference has been able to survive this long. But more – to Tristan – it's so odd that anyone _wants_ this to exist. He knows he has his flaws for taking so long to see it. He supported this for a long time, accidentally and inherently. But there are people who sought to build this and people who still seek to sustain it. 

They slip into another room. Rosie suddenly stops in front of him. Tristan bumps into her and it takes another moment to figure out what's happening.

There's somebody in this room.

“Dad,” he says, surprised, before he can stop himself. He winces instantly, because, of course, he wasn't talking to Finnick Odair.

He was talking to Vance Aldjoy, who lolls in one of the massive winged armchairs across the room. This scene feels surreal. (Why is he here? How is this possibly happening?)

“I think we both know,” Vance says, finishing off his drink, “That _that_ isn't precisely true.”

Tristan can't take his eyes off Vance to look at what anyone else is doing in the room. Rosie reaches down and grabs his wrist hard. Tristan fumbles, tries to come up with something to say – but before he can do anything at all, Finnick takes three long strides toward Vance, his shoulders squared, his body taut. 

Vance stands up in a lean brush of motion and draws a pistol from beside him and levels it squarely at Finnick's face.

Tristan jerks forward, but Rosie grabs him, holds him in place. No one is breathing. 

Vance smiles crookedly at Finnick.

“Good to see you again, Finnick,” Vance says. “I see you've met our son. What do you think of him?” Despite the question, Vance only pauses for half a second. “A bit too crazy for my tastes. Must be from that _little wife_ of yours.” 

Finnick tenses, but Vance readjusts his hold on the gun and makes a soft sound of warning in the back of his throat.

“She held onto him for hours after she went into labor, you know,” Vance says softly. He wears his maliciousness openly, all of it centered on Finnick. (Tristan feels almost as if he's watching this outside of his own body. Despite everything that's happened, it's so strange to see the man who raised him act like this – with such open contempt. This is none of the placating kindness that he had gotten from Ashleen.) 

“ _Begged_ for you the entire time,” Vance hisses, presses the barrel of the gun more harshly against Finnick's forehead. “She held him in so long the doctors were afraid he'd die because of not getting enough oxygen. They had to cut him out of her. Savera and I were the first ones to hold him while she bled out on the table. She was still asking for you when she died.”

Tristan expects Finnick to jump at Vance. But he hasn't. He remains utterly still, the anger and hurt simmering obviously through his body. (It's only seconds later that Tristan realizes why: Vance is so absolutely focused on Finnick that he hasn't paid any attention to Johanna edging up the side of the room, grabbing a marble bust, inching her way toward him. She wears her hatred even more openly, her fingers clawed around the marble.)

Before she reaches him, Vance moves. He turns the gun away from Finnick almost casually and levels it instead at Tristan. 

Tristan blinks, too stunned to move. 

Luckily, he doesn't need to. Finnick barrels into Vance, taking the risky move. The gun goes off, the sound exploding into the room.

“Dad!” Tristan shouts, screaming for Finnick. He tries to fling himself forward at the two of them, but Rosie catches him hard, holds him in place.

In front of them, Finnick lets out a low groan of pain and rolls off of Vance. His hands hover near his stomach, where blood is already beginning to flow. Vance laughs, a vindictive burst of sound. Before he can right himself, Johanna brings the bust down on his head hurt. A sickening crack echoes about the room.

“Remember me?” Johanna bites off. “The other crazy girl?” She brings the marble down again and again, and blood splashes red against the wall. 

“Don't look,” Rosie whispers to him. But he can't not. 

He watches Katniss scramble across the room, her bow flung to the floor. She presses shaking hands to Finnick's stomach, trying to staunch the blood. He watches as Johanna drops the marble bust to the ground. It thuds there, and she inhales slowly, head tilted back. Her face and shirt are spattered in blood. Her hands shake – just for an instant – before she rolls off and joins Finnick and Katniss.

Only then does Tristan remember how to move and breathe. He flings himself across the room, even though he doesn't know what to do. He looks down at Finnick with growing horror. His face is growing paler by the second.

“What do we do?” Tristan asks half frantically, looking from Katniss to Johanna. “Is he going to be okay?”

He _needs_ Finnick to be okay. He realizes that with a sudden intensity. He can't lose Finnick now. After everything they've gone through, it seems cruel to lose him here and now. He's been going through this with the promise of a new, different family. And now he might lose it. 

“I've got him,” Johanna says with a steely quiet. She slides Katniss' hands out of the way. “I'll stay here with him. You need to finish this.” She doesn't look at any of them as she says this. 

Someone tugs gently at Tristan's arm. He looks, expecting it to be Rosie. It's Wren. She looks nearly as pale as Finnick. 

“He needs a doctor,” Wren says quietly. “The faster we finish this, the faster a doctor can get to him.” Logically, he knows she's right. But emotionally, the last thing he can imagine is making Finnick wait until after they've found Eleanor. That seems eons away still. He wants to argue. He wants to say that they should put the rest of this mission on hold until they get Finnick stabilized. The words die in his throat. He knows they're not really an option. 

“All right,” he agrees. 

He wants to say something to Finnick – something that will mean something, something to thank him for essentially saving his life. But that would be saying goodbye, and he refuses to believe that that is what this is. 

_We'll be back_ , he signs to Finnick instead. Finnick nods at him and smiles, pained. 

The rest of them file out of the room, leaving Finnick and Johanna splayed out on the floor. Rosie inches at the front again, clinging to Tristan's hand as if he might slip through her fingertips if she doesn't hold onto him hard enough. 

They find other Capitolites scattered throughout the rooms. Some try to fight. Most don't. Most look at them in a numb wide-eyed sort of way, as if they're spirits conjured up from nothing. Katniss, Wren, and Vanora dispatch any of those who try to fight with an ease that Tristan is simultaneously impressed and sickened by. After Finnick's injury, though, there can be no room for chances. 

Finally, they reach the president's office, one of the innermost rooms in this stronghold. The door is shut when they arrive. Rosie puts one hand onto the doorknob, and it feels like time slows down. The click of the handle sliding out of place is almost obscenely loud. It reverberates back through all of them.

Tristan doesn't know why, but at the last minute he grabs Rosie. He tugs her back against him by the shoulders. The knob slides out of her hand but the door swings open the rest of the way. A second later, a gunshot cracks the air. The bullet embeds itself in the wooden frame of the door. Rosie flinches in his arms.

Vanora and Wren rush forward, Vanora making it through seconds before Wren, her gun raised. Wren has an arrow notched in her bow.

“Don't--!” Rosie shouts. She tumbles into the room after them, Tristan following immediately behind her. He collides with her, wraps an arm around her, does whatever he can to keep her close. He doesn't need to see what's happening to know that she's in danger.

But he does see what's happening: Eleanor is behind the desk, a gun leveled at them. She looks unsteady in a way that Tristan has never seen before. Her hair is messily tousled, the top three buttons of her uniform undone. These details pick at him, because the rest of the image is too difficult to contend with. 

Eleanor is there, but she is not alone. She has Willow with her, her free hand pressed tight around Willow's throat, holding in her place. 

Vanora takes half a step forward, but Rosie actually grabs at the back of her shirt, pulling her back into place. All the same, Eleanor makes a quiet tutting noise and shifts to press the gun to the bottom of Willow's chin, forcing her to look up at the ceiling. Willow shakes beneath her hold, a few tears rolling damply down her cheeks.

“El,” Rosie says beseechingly, ignoring the livid look that Vanora shoots her. “It's over. Come on.” 

“How dare you,” Eleanor breathes out. “I expected better from you. You have _shamed_ our family.” 

“Is it a shame to save the country from more bloodshed?” Rosie shoots back. She starts inching forward, moving past Vanora and Wren, who are both on edge. Tristan tries to grab her back, to keep her near. He doesn't trust Eleanor not to shoot her – not to shoot Willow – and he doesn't know what he wants the outcome of this to be. Wren is looking at him, her gaze heavy. She's waiting for him to give the signal, to say that it's okay or that it's not for her to loose her arrow. But he doesn't _know_. Should he let Rosie keep trying to talk Eleanor down? Is there any chance of that? Or should he tell Wren to take her shot? Can she be faster, cleaner than Eleanor when she has that gun pressed to Willow's head?

“Eleanor,” Willow whimpers, and Eleanor squeezes her cruelly. Her gaze doesn't leave Rosie.

“It _is_ a shame,” Eleanor hisses. “Our family has kept Panem together by any means necessary. That's our _legacy_. You're throwing it away, Rosie. Over a weakness of heart. I won't be the one who lost control of Panem. I won't.” She jerks the gun up more roughly, the barrel biting into tender flesh. “I'll do what I have to maintain our legacy. Tell them to leave. Tell them to leave or I'll shoot her.” She doesn't give Rosie time to deliver any orders though. Her eyes jerk back to where Katniss is standing at the back of the room.

“You recognize her?” she hisses at Katniss. “You know who she is?”

If Katniss reacts, Tristan can't see it. She doesn't say anything out loud. Whatever the case – her reaction or lack thereof spurs Eleanor on.

“I should thank you, you know,” Eleanor says tartly. “I learned from so many of your mistakes. Learned everything about the _illusion_ of power and where its weaknesses are.” Her hand twitches around the gun. “And you have a lot more weaknesses now.” 

He hadn't really thought that Eleanor would surrender. Not really. But it's the way she talks about Willow in that instant that he knows it, deep in his heart. She's framed all of them as weaknesses – is dedicated to making sure that her family can't be used against her. Which means there's no way that Rosie will be able to talk Eleanor into doing what they want. There's only one way this can end. 

Willow is still crying in Eleanor's hold. Her eyes roll down to meet his, just for a flash of a moment. Out of all of them, he suspects she would have been the hardest to convince of what had happened. He feels a phantom pain of sympathy for her. His lot isn't easy either, but the Snows had always more actively attempted to love her – and have betrayed her more readily. 

Wren is still staring at him out of the corner of her eye. He meets her gaze, tells her what she's allowed to do. 

She doesn't hesitate. If she has any doubts about how clean or fast her shot can be, she doesn't let them show. The arrow flies and embeds itself in the slice of Eleanor's throat just visible behind Willow. Willow lets out a cry, pushes back at Eleanor, and frees herself before Eleanor's fingers can spasm around the trigger.

Rosie screams, clapping her shaking hands over her face. She moans and sinks down to the ground. 

Tristan's first impulse is to go to her, but he makes himself head to Willow first. She half collapses against him and he hugs her close. She keeps saying his name and crying into his shoulder, too overwhelmed to get a complete sentence out. He shushes her gently, but knows there's nothing to say that will make this any better. Physically, she's fine, but as he's learned, this wound is emotional. It's crippling. 

Wren notches another arrow and slides around the side of the desk, Katniss and Vanora beside her. The three of them don't move again, so Tristan assumes that means that Eleanor is dead. It's almost over. (This is wishful thinking, a fervent hope. He needs for this to be almost over, for there to be no more tricks. He needs Finnick to be okay. He needs for this sort of violence to end.)

“Willow,” Tristan asks gently. “Do you know where Peeta and Rye are?”

Willow nods wetly. 

“They're in the basement,” she manages to get out.

“Katniss,” Tristan says. She has her back to him this time. Her bow is loose in her hand and she stares out the window. He has no idea what she's looking at, but the sound of her name doesn't draw her back to herself. 

She turns instead and walks out of the room, her pace quick. 

“I'll stay here with them,” Wren says, turning her head toward Willow and Rosie. “You two go with Katniss.” 

There's no time to weigh other options, so Vanora and Tristan seamlessly follow after Katniss, struggling to keep up with her. There's none of the hesitation that had colored their arrival. She heads boldly from room to room, winding her way down toward the back of the house. Tristan thinks she has to be going to find Peeta, the one person she has asked for time and time again since they met. But, to his surprise, she goes back outside, to the property that sprawls behind the mansion.

To where the greenhouse sits.

It seems like eons ago that he came here. That memory tugs at him. Tries to warn him. 

They feel precariously open here. They have no cover. But there's no apparent guard either. Tristan keeps dragging his eye over the landscape, but he sees nothing. His discomfort is reflected in Vanora, who is tense. But they both keep following after Katniss, anyway.

She makes a beeline for the greenhouse. 

Something about it strikes Tristan as odd. It takes him another instant to realize exactly what it is. The doors are thrown open. A single figure stands at the sight of them, stops just in front of those opened doors. 

Coriolanus Snow. 

He doesn't seem surprised to see them. He doesn't seem to have any reaction at all. But then, he doesn't look at either Vanora or him. He only looks at Katniss. A small, almost wry smile spreads across his face.

“Miss Everdeen,” he greets her cordially. “How nice to see you again.”

Katniss doesn't answer him aloud, and he doesn't goad her like Eleanor. 

“Katniss,” Vanora says nervously, but Katniss doesn't break stride. She's still holding her bow in one hand, but hasn't pulled another arrow from her quiver. 

Tristan glances over at Vanora, and she looks right back at him. They're thinking the same thing. This is a trap, somehow. 

“Katniss!” 

Someone is screaming behind them. Tristan doesn't recognize the voice right away, but Katniss does. It's only this voice that could halt her – and it does. She stops, no more than five feet away from Snow. She half turns her head.

Behind them, coming down the lawn, is Peeta. He's sprinting, trying to get to Katniss before – before?

“Don't go in!” Peeta shouts.

Katniss' head pivots back to where Snow is standing. His smile grows incrementally wider. Tristan is aware of Vanora raising her gun to fire, but it doesn't matter. Snow takes one step, and then another forward, crossing whatever line Peeta had been instructing them not to cross. 

The greenhouse explodes. 

Fire lights up the inside of his eyelids, so bright that everything else disappears. He feels Vanora collide with him, and then it's just heat. His body feels seared from the inside out, and the sensation lasts forever. He forgets what he is – he's just pain, all awareness of everything else dissipating. His brain blares out a thousand signals, all in warning – that he needs oxygen, that he needs to get away. But he can do nothing but wait until it's over. 

When he becomes aware of himself again, he gasps, struggling to breathe in and out. Vanora is on top of him still, and all he can smell is burning. They'd been far enough away – and she'd knocked him out of the direct hit of the blast. They're burned and covered in glass, but as far as Tristan can tell, they haven't been injured fatally. 

Vanora rolls off him slowly, groaning, holding herself as if she's also slowly coming to this conclusion.

“Katniss!” Tristan calls hoarsely as he sits up. His ears are still ringing, and his eyes feel gritty. It doesn't take him long all the same to spot Peeta and Katniss. Katniss' clothes are still smoldering, but Peeta is with her. It looks as if he'd done the same – knocked her to the ground, and has patted out the parts of her that had caught fire. 

She stares up at him with an expression that Tristan can only describe as awe. She seems unaware of any of her own physical discomfort. She reaches shaking hands up and presses them against Peeta's face. He halts and fixates on her in an entirely different way.

“Are you okay?” he asks shakily. His hands hover above her, as if he's suddenly afraid to touch her now. “Are you okay?”

Katniss sits up and moves toward him – as if it's impossible to do anything else, as if they're two halves of a whole that, after all this time and everything they've endured, still fit together. She wraps her arms around him, buries her face into his shoulder. 

Tristan feels as if he's intruding on this moment. All they've done is hug, and it's the most intimate thing he's ever witnessed. 

“Peeta,” Katniss whispers into his shoulder. 

He holds onto her for several seconds before pulling back slowly.

“Gemma?” Peeta asks with an obvious desperation. “Is Gemma okay?”

Something shifts in Katniss' expression, softens. Tristan doesn't have the words to describe how she looks at Peeta. She bites her lower lip and then nods. As soon as Peeta sees that action, he grabs her up again. They sit together, unbothered by the flames raging in front of them, and just hold each other.

From behind them, Tristan hears shouts. He twists around to see Wren and Rye racing down toward them. Even from where he is, he sees the fear painted on Wren's face. Her eyes bounce from him to Vanora, and she flings herself at the two of them, apparently unable to choose which to hug first. Her arm catches him awkwardly about the neck. She's crying too hard to get a word out. 

“We're okay,” Vanora says gently to her, but Wren keeps on sobbing. 

“Shh,” Vanora says again. She wraps her arms completely around Wren, and Tristan lets her go. “We're okay. Look, see? We're okay. He's gone. It's over. It's all over now.” 

Wren buries in against Vanora, and Vanora leans down to pepper Wren's face with kisses. 

Tristan looks up at Rye, who offers him a hand to pull him to his feet. Tristan accepts it. 

Rye whistles low, looking at the remains of the greenhouse, the charred roses that now litter the lawn.

“You really make a mess, don't you,” Rye says, although his tone is amicable, maybe even impressed.

“I suppose we do,” Tristan admits. He turns to look back at the house – where, somewhere, inside, are Rosie and Finnick. But the windows are indistinguishable from one another, and it's not really the mansion that catches his eye. It's the city beyond it. The sky is stained with the pluming smoke. The city doesn't remain untouched by the soot, but it also isn't razed by it.

That was probably the best they could ever hope for.

…

The hours after become a blur. The rest of the rebels are brought into the mansion. A medic is found immediately for Finnick – or so Tristan is told. He doesn't see his father again that day. While the word “arrest” is never used, Rosie is kept confined in one of the rooms of the house. Tristan stays with her. 

She sleeps, her eyes and nose rimmed with red. 

Tristan finds that he can't sleep. He watches everyone coming and going on the lawn. Wren keeps him updated to the best of her ability, tells him that Gemma is going to be coming, that there are more people from each of the districts coming in. Tells him that most of the leaders of the Capitol, hearing that the Snow family is dead, are willing to start working with the rebels. There's talk of what Rosie's role should be – and Tristan knows that's where he's going to have to be careful. There are people who want to harm her. There are people who think that she needs to be killed to finish what's been started. There are some who advocate for her being given some place – something small – in the new government that's to be formed. Lip service to the Capitolites. 

When she wakes in the middle of the night, he quietly asks her what she wants. She clings to his hand with both of hers, while he tries to trace the lines of worry out of her face.

“I want to leave here,” Rosie begs. “I want to be with you. I want to be anywhere but here.”

“All right,” Tristan agrees. She falls back asleep.

An hour after that, Wren comes back and tells him the doctors have said that Finnick should be fine. The bullet's been removed, he's been given blood. As long as he doesn't develop an infection, there's no reason he shouldn't make a full recovery.

It's only once he's been given that news can he sleep. He wraps himself around Rosie and grabs a few restless hours of sleep until the day streaks a bloody pink.

When he wakes, he procures them a train ticket out of the Capitol. 

Wren wants him to stay. 

(“You have a role to play here,” she begs him. 

“I've done what we planned on doing,” Tristan answers. 

He's not a leader. What he wants is the same as what Rosie wants. He wants them. He wants their peace, their love.)

They leave the day after that, with guards accompanying them to be fair, but they are allowed to _leave_ all the same. They find a place in District 10. Tristan likes the weather. It feels like Four, and they're only a little ways down from a beach. Their land comes with a herd of horses, and Rosie takes a shine to them.

The guards stay with them for awhile, but at a distance that grows with time. They make sure that no supporters contact Rosie. 

Everyone writes constantly to Tristan. Gemma is reunited with Peeta and Katniss. (Wren tells him that Rye has worked up an amicable relationship with both Peeta and Katniss. Willow has seen them both, but is still uneasy with everything that has happened. She's requested to be allowed to come to District 10 with them. They've also found Poppy, the last victor kid – the youngest besides Gemma – who is Finnick and Katniss'. But she refuses to acknowledge anything, won't talk to any of them, and it's unclear what will happen to her.)

The government is being formed. Each of the district's mayors has been shipped into the Capitol, and it's agreed that a second representative will be elected from each district. A council will be formed that will represent the Capitol and the 11 remaining districts. (Bay, Rue's brother, is immediately elected for Eleven.)

There's talk of Twelve being reformed, because Katniss and Peeta, as soon as they're able, take the train back to their former home. Gemma goes with them. 

Finnick and Johanna leave as soon as Finnick is cleared as well. They stop along their way back to Four to see where Rosie and he live. It's their visit that dispenses the last of the guards – and Johanna is behind it, Tristan later finds out. She snaps at them, tells them to give them space while she's there, and when they leave, she contacts the council members and tells them that the guards are superfluous here and that their so-called talents could be put to better use rebuilding districts.

Tristan is grateful for every moment he is able to spend with his father. He's surprised to learn that he's comfortable sitting in silence with Finnick Odair – a man he had so recently met, who had intimidated him so badly once. He hadn't known what to think of him then. He can't imagine life without him now. 

He promises Finnick they'll come and visit Four when things calm down. 

_I'm so proud of you_ , Finnick tells him before he leaves. He hugs him.

He doesn't hear a word of what happened to the rest of the Aldjoy family. He can't help but wonder over that – a mother, a sister, a brother. Had they all died beforehand? Was that why Vance was by himself? Had they gone undergone? Tristan feels certain that if they had been arrested, Wren would have told him, unless she was also kept from that knowledge.

He tries to find peace with the fact that he may never know the truth. But it's hard. It keeps him up at night. They are the skeletons in his closet – which may pop up at any moment. 

For awhile, he also keeps searching for Annie Cresta. He tries to sort out whether she was moved somewhere else as well, but keeps coming to the same truth that everyone has told him all along: She died giving birth to him. He begins keeping lists of things he wants to do know about her, stories to ask Finnick when he sees him once again. 

After the guards leave and as the nation starts to settle down, there's a quiet that's left between him and Rosie. She smiles slowly. She laughs less. 

But she blossoms in a different sort of way when she works with the horses. He gives her space there. She teaches herself to ride. She can spend hours out in the field with them. He watches her, making sure she's safe, but he doesn't intrude on her. 

He doesn't know if she blames him for parts of what happened. He can't ask now. One day, he will. But for now, that hurt is too tender. Their love is there, even if it still feels tentative. This has made them flimsy and strong in turn. They're fused together by what's happened, and the idea of not being together is incomprehensible, but they're also not even close to being the people they were when this started out. A lifetime ago, he proposed to her. A different life ago, he proposed to her.

Six months after the end of the rebellion, they curl up in their bed together, listen to their house creak in the pound of a storm. 

“Do you still want to marry me?” Rosie asks him in a breath that could be extinguished by the rain if they chose to let it.

“Always,” Tristan whispers.

They're married the next day, just the two of them, in the town hall. The man who marries them doesn't know who they are. His words are simple. They don't even have rings to exchange. They sign the papers – and it's this act that is more important to them than anything else. 

They've stripped down their love for each other; it's no longer about the material and the physical. Rings aren't going to bind them. Luxury and excess were never going to keep them together. 

It's them. They keep each other together through force of will. Through dedication. Through renewal. 

Their first act as a married couple is to change their names. 

It took them time to decide what they wanted. Tristan debates over taking Odair – or even Cresta – because he feels connected to his parents now. But that doesn't sit right with him. But neither do they want to keep Aldjoy or Snow, and any combination of any of those names is uncomfortable. 

All of those names keep them linked too much to the past. This part is about moving forward. 

So they take a new name, untarnished by anyone else. 

They grow back into each other. They relearn each other. They rebuild their lives together. (For a flickering moment, Tristan understands the looks that Katniss and Peeta shared in the Capitol after Snow made one final, desperate attempt to destroy them.)

Assured and safe in each other, Rosie and Tristan return to the Capitol a year later for all the celebrations of the new republic. They stay with Vanora and Wren, who have remained in the Capitol and continued to work. 

Wren and Tristan stand out on the balcony on the first night he's there, fireworks exploding over the sky. Tristan leans on the railing, a drink in hand and watches Wren, who smiles up at the lights, looking at ease. They don't talk – because what's there to say at this point?

Once upon a time, she had found him on the street on a night not totally unlike this once. She'd come to him with nothing but knowledge, a spark of hope, and trust in him that was unfounded at that point. 

They'd been made and harvested to be instruments of hurt, pain, and destruction. 

She'd helped them prove that, together, they could all be greater than their odds.

“Happy new world,” she says as she clinks their glasses together.

“Happy new world,” he answers.


End file.
